


Icarus

by orphean



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Emotional Manipulation, Episode: s01e11 The Sound and the Fury, M/M, Pre-Canon, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-12-15 13:55:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11807328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphean/pseuds/orphean
Summary: The story of Hartley Rathaway and Harrison Wells.When Icarus wore his wax wings, his father warned him not to fly too close to the sun, told him to be careful. When Hartley Rathaway met Harrison Wells, he had no father to warn him of the dangers, to tell him to be careful. Harrison Wells held out his hand and offered him the world.





	1. Chapter 1

When Icarus wore his wax wings, his father warned him not to fly too close to the sun, told him to be careful. When Hartley Rathaway met Harrison Wells, he had no father to warn him of the dangers, to tell him to be careful. Harrison Wells held out his hand and offered him the world. Hartley would have been foolish to say no. Maybe, if he had known then what he learned later, perhaps he would have declined the offer. But he was young, fresh out of college and freshly disinherited. He needed to prove himself.

Hartley was lying on the floor of a shabby motel, smoking his fifteenth cigarette of the day when his phone rang. A polite, efficient and impatient voice told him that doctor Harrison Wells wanted to arrange an appointment with him, would tomorrow at nine be acceptable? While trying, and failing, to blow smoke rings, Hartley agreed and wondered if this was another cruel joke of his father’s, like closing all his bank accounts or saying that he wished he had never been born.

But joke or not, he entered the S.T.A.R. Labs a few minutes before the hour struck the next day, and was ushered to a glass office, where he was told that doctor Wells would join him in a few minutes.

Wells carried himself like so many men Hartley had known – financiers, stock market speculators and self-made millionaires. He had the gait of someone who learned the secret of the world, the poise of a king in his kingdom. But whereas the men he had known, his parents’ friends who treated Hartley with everything from disinterest to distaste, couched their steps on their fortunes, Harrison Wells’ wealth was in his intellect, his genius, his knowledge. He was the man Hartley had always dreamed of being.

‘Mr Rathaway,’ The proffered hand was shook and Wells smiled. ‘I don’t know if you remember, but we met a few years ago. It is nice to meet you again.’

Of course Hartley remembered. A reluctant chaperone for his mother, he had spent an evening shaking hands with dignitaries, diplomats, the best and brightest of Central City. On his third glass of sparkling wine, something his mother had allowed despite the fact that he was not old enough, she touched his arm and introduced him to Harrison Wells. _My son is a great admirer of yours_ , she crooned and offered a hand for a kiss. _I look forward to the chance of discussing my research with him some day, then_. He left the ghost of a kiss on her knuckles, smiled at Hartley and excused himself with a dozen smooth excuses. That smile had kept Hartley awake for weeks.

‘I believe you said we would have to discuss your research? I am glad the time has come.’ He sat down in the chair Wells had pointed to, aware of his awkward body and the fact that his suit was not as neat as he would have liked. Motels, it turned out, did not offer dry cleaning.

‘And your mother said you were a great admirer of mine.’

‘I am sure she did, but we are not on speaking terms at present.’ Hartley’s quick smile was more to distract from the fact than to apologise for it.

‘And why is that?’ Wells’ eyes sparkled behind his glasses, his long fingers steepled. Hartley wished he hadn’t mentioned his mother, wished Wells hadn’t been asked the question. It was a bruise still tender.

He exhaled, searching for the right words.

‘I told my parents I was gay. They do not approve.’ Hartley looked at Wells’ face, but apart from a slight quirk of an eyebrow, he did not react.

‘I see. How did your boyfriend take that?’

Hartley frowned.

‘I don’t – I don’t have a boyfriend. I just got tired of lying.’

‘I’m sorry, Mr Rathaway, I did not mean to overstep. It takes a brave man to be honest in the face of the world.’

‘Perhaps,’ Hartley smiled at the praise. ‘What sort of man are you?’

Wells grinned and started rifling through documents on his desk. Finding a white manila folder, he leafed through the documents. Hartley craned his neck but couldn’t see the contents.

‘I am man in awe of your mind. You’re brilliant, but I’m sure you know that. I’ve been keeping my eye on you,’ he glanced up at him before returning to the documents in front of him. ‘I was impressed by your undergraduate thesis, and I was astounded by your graduate project. It takes a mind of incredible calibre to do what you have done, and your age, too. You are truly inspiring.’

Hartley laughed, a small, nervous sound.

‘Doctor Wells, you are surely a far too busy man to have the time give idle compliments. What do you want from me?’

He might have imagined it, but he thought he saw Wells’ tongue dart out and lick his lips, he thought his eyes burned with some unidentified emotion.

‘I have a proposition for you. I have a plan – well, an idea – for something that I believe will change the world. I want you to help me build it.’

‘Me?’ Hartley laughed in earnest now. ‘What is it?’

‘New ways to create energy, clean energy. Central City, free from the clutches of Big Oil. New avenues for scientific research, medicine, you name it. We can do it, and I want you to be my right hand man.’

If this was a joke, it was very well-orchestrated one. Hartley had dreamed of changing the world when he was a child, before he realised that his father expected him to take over the family business. That he now, disgraced and abandoned, would get to fulfil this old lost dream was hard to believe.

‘Do you have anything written down about this idea?’

Wells smiled and presented him with a thick folder. Hartley reviewed the papers, and this could be no joke. This plan, this accelerator, would change the world. _He_ could change the world. He tried to go through the documents quickly – aware that he was taking up Wells’ valuable time, so aware of the man’s eyes on him – but every sentence brought with it such potential, such implications. His fingers were shaking as he turned the pages, his heart was forcing its way out of his chest. Hartley Rathaway could be part of this?

‘What do you think?’ Wells cocked his head to one side. Hartley, uncertain of what to say, could just nod, wide-eyed. The doctor’s smile curled at the edges. ‘When can you start?’

* * *

On Monday, after a background check to prove he wasn’t a criminal (no, not yet, not at this point), Hartley Rathaway stepped into the S.T.A.R. Labs as a salaried employee, his tie a crisp Windsor knot and his ID card complete with an unflattering photograph. On Tuesday, he signed a lease on an apartment a seven minute walk from the Labs, with a move in date of _as soon as possible_. On Thursday, Doctor Wells insisted on taking him out to lunch.

‘I have a lot of work to catch up on,’ Hartley motioned at his desk, already inundated with articles of transmatter theory, theses from universities around the world, and hastily scrawled notes and equations.

‘It can wait a few hours. I insist.’

After another moment of half-hearted grumbling, Hartley acquiesced. It wasn’t that he didn’t _want_ to eat lunch with doctor Wells – he was getting bored of his diet of greek yoghurt and granola bars – but the thought of more than a few minutes alone with the man made his stomach curl in a somewhat unpleasant, somewhat excited way.

The restaurant Wells had chosen was a nice one, one Hartley had visited once or twice with his parents, years ago. A waiter directed them to a small table, reciting in poor French the specials of the day.

‘What do you want? I recommend the mussels.’

The mussels, Hartley noticed from a cursory glance at the menu, were the second-most expensive item on the menu, and he wondered if this was a test. While deciding what to do – mussels were delicious, after all – he looked around the restaurant and catching a familiar face, he froze. A few tables away, sitting opposite to a young, probably attractive woman who was definitely not his wife, sat Rathaway Industries’ vice president and one of Osgood Rathaway’s few friends, Dermot Frasier. Frasier had noticed Hartley and his eyes darted between him and Wells, dark with distaste.

‘Are you alright? We can go somewhere else,’ Doctor Wells’ hand was resting on Hartley’s wrist, his eyes carefully on Hartley’s face. He made up his mind, and attempted a smile.

‘No, no, this is fine.’ He withdrew his arm, turning his hand to let his fingertips graze against Wells’ palm. A dangerous touch, somehow allowed. ‘The mussels sound delightful.’

He glanced one more time in the direction of Frasier, who was now on his phone, typing a message with one finger. Hartley tried not to think to whom he might be writing, what he might be saying. He turned back to Wells.

‘How has your first week been?’

‘Good, busy. I think there will be many long nights ahead.’ Since Monday, he had been at the Labs for at least eleven hours a day, but he knew it would not be enough. Not if he wanted to prove himself.

‘For you and me both.’ The waiter returned for their order, which paused the conversation for a moment. Despite Hartley’s protestation, Wells insisted on ordering them wine with the food. ‘I am sorry I haven’t been more present these last few days. Next week, I promise, we’ll get started in earnest. Have you found anything exciting in your reading yet?’

They spoke of what he had been studying, the preliminary issues he saw in the project, the ways he believed it could be streamlined. Harrison listened as he tore pieces off the complimentary bread, dipped them in olive oil and put them in his mouth. Hartley was transfixed by Harrison’s fingers, the way they touched his lips, the way – but no. He shook his head, tried to focus.

‘I have some papers that should arrive on Saturday – I spoke to a librarian who promised to get them to me by then – but unfortunately I have to spend that day buying furniture. I’ll try to come in once I’m done.’

‘You really don’t have to. Where are you moving?’

Hartley told him the address, and was given half-a-dozen recommendations on where to eat, where to buy the freshest fruit and where to get a suit tailored. Wells also offered to join him in buying furniture, admitting with a slightly embarrassed laugh that home decor was a secret interest of his. He looked a little put out when Hartley told him that really, no, it was not necessary. At that point the food arrived, and they ate in silence.

Hartley kept his eyes on his food, trying hard not to look Wells, who cracked the shells open and ate with his hands, rivulets of jus running down his wrist. Because he wasn’t looking, he didn’t see how he refused to use a fork for his fries, fingertips instead covered in salt. And as he kept his eyes on his food, he didn’t stare at the way Wells put his fingers in his mouth, the way he licked his hand clean. Hartley fought with the seafood with knife and fork, ignoring the heat on his cheeks and the roiling in the pit of his stomach.

Since his first meeting with Wells, Hartley had been wondering about Wells’ question about his non-existent boyfriend, why he had asked that. He had considered enquiring about it during the lunch, but now he felt too embarrassed to bring it up. He sipped his now lukewarm wine, and desperately thought about something to say. Wells wiped his hands on the fine cotton napkin and smiled at Hartley, all dimples and intelligence.

‘So, the particle accelerator.’

‘Is that what we’re calling it?’

‘That’s what it is,’ Wells shrugged. ‘I don’t see why we should give it a flashy name when a descriptive one works just as well. I want it done by 2013.’

Hartley choked on his last mussel and spent a few minutes coughing, Wells pounding his back.

‘2013? Surely you’re joking. That’s – that’s no time at all.’ Hartley couldn’t even imagine _how_ they could manage that, even with a full team of physicists working on it.

‘Mr Rathaway, if we want to change the world, we need to do it while there’s a world to change.’ He tipped his glass at him before finishing it, and Hartley’s eyes lingered on his fine and sharp jaw line. ‘The world of tomorrow, today.’

He found it hard to argue with this golden vision, he found it hard to disagree with Wells when the afternoon sun illuminated his face, making him glow like some ancient deity. He finished his wine and smiled, trying to push down the feelings he recognised from childhood crushes and teenage infatuations.

‘World of tomorrow, today.’

* * *

When Hartley picked up his keys to his new apartment on Saturday morning, the receptionist handed him an envelope.

‘This was delivered for you last night. Didn’t give a name.’

Hartley thanked her, retrieved his suitcase, which containing everything he owned,  and moved towards the elevator. While waiting for it to arrive, he turned the envelope in his hands. It was small, too small to be a letter. His first thought was that it’s from his father, either begging him to come home, all is forgiven, or begging him to change his name, change his face, drop dead in an alley. But no, that’s ridiculous, that’s paranoid. How could he know where he lived? Then he remembered telling Wells his address in the restaurant, he remembered Frasier and his eagle finger typing. The world started spinning. The muffled _ding_ of the elevator levelled him enough breathe again, to close his eyes and count to ten. He entered the elevator, pushed the button for the seventh floor and braced himself for the cruel words in the envelope.

It wasn’t from his father. It was a small greeting card, with a gift card inserted. The card read, in sprawled handwriting:

_Make good decisions. This is the rest of your life we’re talking about._

_H W_

_P.S. Ask Rhonda about housewarming invitation cards_.

Hartley frowned at the card. Why would doctor Wells give him this? He entered his new home, looked around and sat himself down on the floor. With his phone in one hand, he unpeeled the gift card to find out what he could get as a gift from his new boss. It was from one of the nicest interior design stores in Central City, and he was thinking maybe a small vase, perhaps a paper weight. The credit loaded and he covered his face. He checked and double-checked the number he had entered and was equally appalled and confused that there was no mistake. Finally, he pulled up the number to the S.T.A.R. Labs reception and dialled.

‘Hello Miranda, this is Hartley Rathaway. Could you put me through to doctor Wells? No, we haven’t met yet, I started Monday. Yes, of course, I am very excited to meet you in person too. Yes, I’ll hold.’ He walked around his new apartment, checking cabinets and closets, peeking into his dishwasher and fridge, waiting for Harrison Wells to pick up.

‘Mr Rathaway, how can help you?’

‘You know I can’t accept this.’

‘Accept what? My housewarming gift?’

‘It’s not a housewarming gift, it’s enough money to buy a bed!’

‘Well, you should buy a bed. Every man needs one.’

‘You can’t – I don’t – you can’t just buy me a bed, doctor Wells.’

‘It doesn’t _have_ to be a bed, you can get a table, two tables, end tables. I don’t care! You said you were starting from scratch, so get whatever you want.’

‘That’s not the _point_ , sir.’ Hartley sighed, rubbed his eyes and wondered why he was calling him _sir_. ‘It’s too much money. I can’t accept it.’

‘ _Bah_ , sure you can. Think of it as a bonus.’

‘A bonus? I’ve worked for you for a week! Surely you don’t give all your new employees bonuses?’

‘Of course not. I hardly give my old employees bonuses. But if that’s what it takes for you to accept it, it’s a bonus.’

‘Why are you doing this? Why would you give me this?’

Silence on the other end of the line.

‘Because you’re bright, very bright, and I can’t have my second in command live in squalor. It’s a drop in the ocean, really, it is. So, please. Just take it.’ He heard Wells sigh. ‘I’ve got the scientific advisor of the Burundi president on the other line, so we’ll speak later.’

The call disconnected. Hartley spun the plastic card between his fingers for a few moments, before pocketing it and heading out the door.

* * *

Sunday morning, Hartley came in early and left a thank you card on doctor Wells’ desk. Despite his reluctance to use the gift, once his purchases had been tallied he was grateful. His parents had groomed his credit score since before he could walk, but even the credit limit after twenty-two years of perfect payments was ready to succumb under the pressure of buying furniture for an entire apartment in one go. He passed his desk to collect the interlibrary loans that had arrived the day before and spent the day perusing them, taking notes and breaking for cigarettes every thirty minutes.

During one of these breaks, while he was lighting his cigarette with the one thing he still held onto from his father – a silver lighter, engraved with his initials and birthday – he saw a tall figure saunter towards him.

‘You don’t work today,’ doctor Wells said, hands deep in the pockets of his pea coat. Hartley shrugged.

‘ _Ex nihilo nihil fit_.’

‘Nothing comes from nothing? Hardly the most interesting quotation you could have chosen. What are you working on?’

Hartley considered asking how he knew Latin – if it was Sunday school or prep school or a desire to be better than everyone else. Then again, it hadn’t been a very rare quote. Perhaps he just knew that one.

‘Still catching up. There’s a lot of reading to be done.’ He took a drag of the cigarette and exhaled through his nose. Doctor Wells looked down on him, considering. Hartley felt foolish for how tiny he was, almost a full head shorter.

‘Smoking’s a filthy habit. It suits you.’ Wells extended two fingers and Hartley offered up the cigarette, and was captured by the way he took it, held it gently as he raised it to his lips. He knew it was foolish to stare at the way the cigarette sat poised between his lips, the way he inhaled, his cheeks hollowing, his eyes looking into the middle distance, but he could not help it. He was transfixed by how the smoke drifted from his mouth in a haze of white. A smile was tugging at the corner of Wells’ mouth as he returned the cigarette, fingers brushing against fingers, the filter slightly damp when Hartley returned it to his lips.

The silence between them was comfortable, familiar. Hartley felt more at home in this silence out in the cold than he had ever felt at home in the house of his parents’. He finished his cigarette slowly, relishing the buzz of the nicotine as it spread through his body. He offered it to Wells a second time, but was rebuffed with a slight shake of the head. He didn’t mind, uncertain if he could have made it through watching him take a second drag. Hartley wasn’t sure why he was so drawn to Harrison Wells, why everything he did was so appealing, why he was so terrified of disappointing him, but this was not the time to ponder this. No, he would think about this later, in the darkness of his room, in the quiet of his bed.

‘I know I said we’d begin next week, but do you want to get started now? I’m yours for the evening.’ Wells breathed through his nose, dissatisfied with what he had just said. ‘Scratch that. I’m yours until we’re done.’


	2. Chapter 2

Hartley Rathaway tried very hard not to fall in love. But somewhere he lost his focus: somewhere in the buzz of early mornings of planning over takeaway coffee and yoghurt cups; the mid-morning breaks of espresso and croissants from the closest cafe; lunch-time salads inhaled while discussing probabilities, equations, materials and costs; the late night takeout meals that fuelled them through the early hours of the morning. Invariably, Harrison (a few weeks in, doctor Wells had looked up and told Hartley that, please, Harrison is fine) would look at Hartley and send him home, send him to bed. _We can continue in the morning_. Harrison seemed to never sleep. He was there when Hartley arrived before dawn broke; he was there when Hartley left in the small hours. He was the constant, glowing sun that drew Hartley into his orbit.

Hartley tried to focus on his work. Think about accelerator designs, not the dip of Harrison’s cheeks when he smiled. Think of the quantity of rare metals needed, not the brush of Harrison’s fingers when he handed him a fresh cup of coffee. Think of a workable timeline for the project, not the way Harrison’s eyes lit up when Hartley played a winning chess move. Because nothing would ever happen and hoping it would, dreaming of it, was only going to make it harder to accept that it was not meant to be. He knew that if he touched him, he would be rejected.

So he looked away. Hartley’s days at S.T.A.R. Labs were as much defined by what he did as what he _didn’t_ do. He didn’t let his eyes linger over Harrison’s sharp frame, his beautiful hands, the way he took off his glasses, how he ran his fingers through his hair. He wouldn’t look at Harrison, a pen between his lips, his fingers drumming staccato on the counter of his workbench. He couldn’t return Harrison’s smiles, so afraid of the truth spilling out through the movements of his face. He was greedy for the small things he allowed himself: Harrison’s praise, private words of approval that were always coupled with a crushing smile; the touches he couldn’t refuse, the touches he so secretly craved; the way his name rolled off Harrison’s tongue when he spoke to his other employees.  

He tried to tell himself that it was only sexual, that Harrison was just a random target of a lifetime of sexual frustration. But when he touched himself, it was Harrison's smile that made him come, not (well, not only) the thought of Harrison's hands on him. It wasn't enough. So he went to the gay bars and tried to find relief in strangers, but the hurried handjobs and sloppy blowjobs in motel rooms did nothing. It was dirty, low and shameful. He would fall asleep those nights and dream of Harrison's disappointment.

The strain wore on him, drops that hollowed him out. It was inevitable that Harrison would notice.

‘What’s wrong?’ he asked one night, after Hartley had made mistakes in the same equation five times and had thrown his notebook across the room. His voice was tender, soft, caring. It made keeping his composure more difficult. It made Hartley want to claw his eyes out.

‘My parents,’ Hartley replied, and it wasn’t quite a lie. ‘It’s their birthdays next week. Father on Thursday, mother on Saturday. I imagine that they’ll have a party Friday night – canapes, champagne, black ties and diamonds. And I, _I_ don’t exist. Not in their world. There will be hundreds of people there and no one, _no one_ , will mention me.’

He was on his feet now, pacing the room. This did bother him, truly, and had been grating him down for weeks, but even this had taken a backseat for his obsession with Harrison. (He could almost hear his father’s words in his ears. _Falling for your boss. You always were pathetic._ )

Harrison’s hands were on his shoulders, forcing him to a halt. The heat of his fingers were burning through his shirt and the world receded.

‘Hartley, you do exist. And you are doing great things.’ Harrison lowered his face, and for one moment, a glorious shining moment, Hartley thought he would kiss him. But no, he only leaned down to rest his forehead on his. ‘ _We_ are doing great things. You and I, we are making a new world.’ Hartley scoffed but didn’t dare to move. Harrison was so close. And then he withdrew, held Hartley at an arm’s length. ‘I think we should announce the accelerator.’

‘Already?’

‘Yes. We’ll need workers, engineers, funding. A lot of funding. We’ve got enough to show the world what we’ll do. You’ve got it done. My golden boy.’

My golden boy. _My golden boy_.

‘Very well.’ Hartley swallowed and dared to look at Harrison. ‘Let’s do it.’

 

* * *

 

The next week was a flurry of preparation. Miranda was pulled in on Monday, despite her weekend-only schedule, briefing the press that there would be an Important Scientific Press Conference that Friday, twelve noon, please come and bring your best photographer. Hartley drew up plans to present, Harrison critiqued them and demanded him to start again from scratch.

‘Do you own a nice suit?’ he asked after doing this a third time.

‘Do I own a _nice suit_?’ Hartley replied, and started over yet again. The next day he brought in five of his nicer suits. Harrison picked one out and approved the presentation designs with the same three words.

‘This will do.’

On Friday morning, Hartley came in a little later than usual. Harrison had told him to get a good night’s sleep, because his face would be all over the news by the evening. The sun was up and he settled himself into his office, a space he rarely worked in, too small to comfortably allow two people to spread out and work. He took the suit from the rack and began to put it on. He was half-done, buttoning a shirt he had brought in when he heard the door open.

‘That is terrible. Take it off.’ Harrison was in the doorway. Like Hartley, he was not fully dressed, several top buttons of his dress shirt still undone. He placed a hanger on the inside of the door. ‘Got you these. Put it on.’

Hartley opened his mouth to protest, but Harrison was gone, leaving Hartley with a burning image of tantalizing flesh, a new pressed shirt and a tie.

Twenty minutes later, fully dressed and hair finally tamed, Hartley went to find Harrison, to see what he could help with, to see if he was dressed yet. Harrison was in his office, almost ready at this point. His tie, matching the one he given Hartley, was looped carelessly around his neck. He was eating a granola bar while listening to his secretary Jacqueline go through the list of press confirmed to attend. He lit up when he saw Hartley.

‘You look good,’ he smiled, so genuinely, and Hartley wanted to read so much more into those words than a compliment. ‘The tie brings out your eyes.’

‘Thanks. How did you know my size?’ The dress shirt was perfect, softer still than the shirts his mother had bought him, made from fine materials from far away. Harrison shrugged.

‘Got a good eye, I guess. Now, you’re not allowed to eat anything until after the press conference because I won’t accept a mess, but I’ll allow a granola bar. I assume you had breakfast?’ Hartley hadn’t, in fact, had breakfast, and ate the granola bar in three bites. ‘We’ll go to Big Belly Burger afterwards. Now, do you have your notes?’

The next hour was spent discussing the itinerary of the presentation: Harrison, presenting the project; Hartley, explaining the science behind it; Harrison, smiling and asking for money. Hartley was nervous about his role for many reasons. He was nervous because he did not want to let Harrison down, he did not want to jeopardize the project by stuttering and stumbling over material he knew so well. He was nervous because he knew that if this press conference was as well-reported as Harrison told him it would be, as it really should be, his father would see him. He was not certain he wanted this.

As noon drew nearer, Harrison tied his tie, askew and awful. Hartley decided not to say anything – he was surely overreacting – but as they stood by the doors to the presentation room, as they heard the room fill with curious voices, he couldn’t take it anymore.

‘Your tie is dreadful. Can I fix it?’

Harrison smiled and lifted his head, inviting Hartley’s hands. He was glad that Harrison wasn’t watching him, or he would see how his fingers were shaking, how he held his breath when he grazed over skin, how he trembled as he looped the cloth into a much nicer knot. He took a step back and nodded, allowed Harrison to tighten the knot and button his jacket.

‘Thank you.’ He checked his watch. ‘One minute. Any last words of advice?’

‘ _Salus populi suprema lex esto_.’

Harrison laughed.

‘Of course,’ he said, and the doors opened. The press conference began.

Harrison stood at the podium with a careful ease, smiled at the assembled reports, a sea of black suits and flashing cameras. He looked at his note cards and put them away. Hartley stood to the side, ten feet away, out of the spot light. His eyes were on Harrison, listening to his pitch as though it was the first time, as though he hadn’t already heard Harrison practice it five times. Except this was a new opening, a new pitch. Of course he had changed it on the fly.

‘The great orator Cicero once said:  _Salus populi suprema lex esto_. Latin, of course, but I believe the most common translation is _let the welfare of the people be the highest law_.’ Harrison looked out at the audience, and glanced back at Hartley for a split second. ‘At S.T.A.R. Labs, that is what we believe. And we believe that we can make a difference for the people of Central City, and, perhaps, the world. Let me show you.’

And then, the words Hartley had heard before. The particle accelerator, leaps of knowledge, clean power for the city. _My close associate, Hartley Rathaway, will show you a little of what we’ve been working on._ Harrison clapped his shoulder as Hartley took the stage, whispered words of encouragement. He did his best to explain the advanced science to reporters who probably spent their days chasing stories about runaway cats; he did his best not to squint in the bright lights, he did his best not to glance at Harrison for reassurance. He wondered about the figure he cut, how he would be described. He thought about what his father would do, when he would turn on the six o’clock news while getting ready for his party and see his greatest embarrassment on the screen. He wondered if his mother would have find a new TV tomorrow, if she would have to find replacement dinner plates. At the end of his presentation, he managed a weak smile and a nod before moving aside, before letting Harrison take the questions. Once or twice, Harrison glanced at Hartley after a question was asked, and Hartley gave short, careful answers. Harrison would smile, a smile that said _there you have it_ , and move on.

When the questions started tapering off, Harrison thanked everyone for their time, placed his hand on Hartley’s shoulder and directed him away from the crowds, through the door, into the corridor.

‘You did well,’ Harrison murmured and pushed him against the wall.

The kiss was like nothing Hartley had experienced. It was fireworks and earthquakes and a lightning storm in the heat of summer. Harrison’s lips, softer than imagined, Harrison’s long fingers in his hair, exactly like imagined. And then, nothing. Harrison pulled away as Hartley heard footsteps approach; Harrison glanced at Hartley, heavy lids and mouth ajar, before straightening his jacket, pulling at his shirt sleeves.

‘Miranda! Jacqueline! What did you think of the presentation? What are the reporters saying?’ He walked up to the secretaries, moved with them down the hall as they told him about the initial reactions, about the expected coverage.

Hartley stayed leaned against the wall, and watched Harrison go.

After a moment, he followed, and waited. He waited all day for Harrison to look at him any differently, for his gaze to linger, for his fingers to brush his. But there was nothing, nothing that was not the same as every day before. The only difference, and even that might be imagined, was that Harrison was surrounding himself with other people: secretaries, journalists, people of note who came to speak with him about the accelerator. After they had lunch – Big Belly Burger, as promised, but with Miranda, Jacqueline and a reporter from Central City Picture News – Hartley found himself thrust into interview after interview, delivering sound bites and weak smiles to TV crews, radio stations and newspaper journalists. At a few minutes to five, one journalist asked if he was of any relation to Osgood Rathaway, and Hartley’s already drooping smile fell. With all the grace he could muster, he explained that it had been a long day, and if at all possible, could this interview be rescheduled for next week? He still had work to do.

Hartley walked through S.T.A.R. Labs, looking for Harrison. He just wanted to talk to him, he just wanted to know what was happening. He just wanted Harrison to tell him what he had meant with the kiss, if it had meant anything, if it was just the euphoria of success that made him do it. But he couldn’t find him. Half an hour later, after looking everywhere he could think, he ran into Jacqueline.

‘Dr Wells? I’m afraid he left a while ago. He didn’t say where he went. You could maybe try to call him? Are you quite alright, Mr Rathaway?’

‘Yes, Jacqueline, I’m fine. If you see him, will you tell him to give me a call? I have some questions about the project.’

Jacqueline smiled at him, a smile of teeth corrected for thousands of dollars and ten years of customer service, and wished him a nice weekend.

Hartley went home, and his apartment felt too large and too small at once. He lit a cigarette, the first one in weeks, the nicotine making him light-headed after just a couple of drags. He opened a bottle of wine, wine probably too nice to drink alone, but there was no one to drink it with, and he had reason to celebrate. _Is this your future made?_ one journalist had asked, and Hartley had laughed, because it was true. Harrison Wells had salvaged his future, had probably saved his life. Had kissed him.

Had kissed him.

Kissed.

Hartley lay on his bed (the bed that Harrison Wells, for all intents and purposes, had bought for him), cigarette ash falling on his collar. He looked at his phone, thinking that, maybe, Harrison would call him. Maybe Harrison would want to talk. No. The phone was dark, and the phone stayed dark for the rest of the night. On and off, he thumbed through his contacts, a list of disappointing one-time hookups, takeaway restaurants and Harrison Wells. Several times, he almost called, he almost typed up a message. But no, that would be too pathetic, even by his standards. He smoked through the last of his cigarettes, he finished the wine.

He felt stupid and childish, a girl abandoned at the prom. Harrison Wells had already given Hartley more than he ever thought he would get: a second chance, an opportunity to prove himself. Wanting more was ridiculous.

Far too late that night, Hartley fell into an uneasy sleep, dreaming, as always, of Harrison.

 

* * *

 

Hartley spent the weekend working at the lab, hoping to see Harrison, but he was curiously absent both Saturday and Sunday. Miranda popped her head in every hour, asked if he wanted some coffee. Hartley refused the coffee, choosing instead to smoke a pack and more and eating nothing but granola bars and yoghurt. He worked on and off, but not with focus, not with intent. He knew that if only Harrison was there, he would be the catalyst he needed to stay focused. But Harrison was somewhere else, maybe kissing someone else, and Hartley was alone. Saturday night, he went to the sleaziest gay bar he knew of, but it was strange to be outside of the ten block radius of S.T.A.R. Labs that had become his home and all the men who glanced at him were too young, too stupid, too soft. He beat himself off in the shower when he got home, frantic, quick, his eyes closed and his mind on Harrison’s hands. Sunday night, he watched silent movies on a re-run channel and fell asleep to Faust selling his soul.

On Monday morning, Harrison was back at the Labs, smiling widely when Hartley entered. He found it hard to start a conversation, to carry on the small-talk about their respective weekends when it was the first weekend for many weeks they had not spent working together and all he had done was think of Harrison. Hartley tried to return the smile, but he knew it didn’t reach his eyes. That morning, he looked at Harrison, contemplated the hollow of his throat, the dimples like gashes in his cheeks, and wondered who might have been in his bed the last few nights. No reference was made to the kiss.

The next few days, the next week, was spent working as they had before, with small but marked changes. Every time Harrison touched Hartley, grazed a finger when he brought him coffee, patted his shoulder at the end of a long night, Hartley held his breath. He screened applications from engineers, scientists, everyone who wanted to work on the particle accelerator. After his initial review, Harrison took over, separating the wheat from the chaff. As the days passed, Hartley started wondering if the kiss had ever happened, if he had maybe lost his mind a little that Friday and that he had at no point been shoved against that wall. There was no reason why Harrison Wells would have kissed him. On Wednesday afternoon, Jacqueline traipsed up to the work area and apologised for interrupting their work. She handed Hartley a handwritten envelope. He recognised the handwriting, his stomach fell, but he opened the envelope and read the unsigned note.

_You will fail._

‘Encouraging words from Rathaway Industries,’ Hartley handed Harrison the note, and he could feel how Harrison looked at him, he knew he had noticed the slight tremor of his fingers, the furrow between his eyebrows, the forced casual smile. ‘So, what do you think about these candidates? I think we should bring in an HR professional because I think they’re all terrible and I don’t want to talk to any of these people.’

Harrison stood up, walked over to where Hartley sat. One hand on the back of his chair, one hand closed over his wrist.

‘You won’t fail, Hartley. You couldn’t fail,’ slight pressure on his wrist, a supportive gesture that made Hartley hold his breath. Harrison’s eyes were very pale behind his glasses, and the smile that played on his lips was like a punch to Hartley’s solar plexus. ‘They don’t understand what they’ve lost. And I am sorry for the hurt your parents have cause you. But every day I find new reasons to be thankful that _I_ found you. You know I can’t do this without you, right? Thank you, Hartley, for being here with me.’

If was a movie, this was when it would happen. This was when Harrison would lean down and kiss him, gentle kisses interspersed with him telling Hartley all the ways he adored him, all the ways he made him want to be better. The hand on the chair would move to Hartley’s neck, steadying him as the kiss would lengthen, as Harrison would perch on the table edge, pull him closer. Tracing kisses all along his neck, his face, his very being, Harrison would tell Hartley about all the ways in which he was perfect and worthy of love.

But this was not a movie, and Hartley was not perfect or worthy of love. Harrison squeezed his wrist one more time and withdrew.

‘You are correct about the applications. We need someone else to do this.’

The moment was over, but it was the only thing that stuck in Hartley’s mind. His father’s hatred, his veiled threats fell away like oil on water, but Harrison stayed. By lunchtime, Hartley had locked himself into one of the private bathrooms, trying to regain control. He could still feel Harrison’s fingers on his wrist (and he wondered what it would feel like he pushed harder, if he tried to bruise). The spot on his back over which Harrison had hovered felt electric (and he thought about how Harrison would remove his clothes, if he would rip them off, if he would take his time, if he would even bother, tugging at his pants as he pushed Hartley against a lab console). He thought about Harrison’s pale eyes (and he asked himself if they would darken with desire, if Hartley could do that to him).

Fumbling with his belt, fumbling with his zipper, he took himself in hand, imagining Harrison’s fingers around him, imagining Harrison’s raspy voice in his ears _._ Moments later, the thought of Harrison coaxing him on too overwhelming to last, and he was done, the tranquility of climax soon overtaken with shame and self-loathing. He couldn’t do this; he couldn’t be this. Driven to such desperation that he had to masturbate at work, like the pervert his father had said he was. But how could he tear himself from Harrison after what he had said? The thought of losing Harrison’s approval was a hot iron in his stomach, a thousand nails run across blackboards in his ears.

Because he would lose his approval, if Harrison knew. If he tried, he would fail.

 

* * *

 

Hartley kept his head down the next couple of days, trying to concentrate at the task at hand, trying not to obsess about Harrison. He made a conscious effort to take his work to his personal office, to stay out of the shared space they had been using. After weeks of working together more or less every day, and considering all of Harrison’s other projects, projects he had neglected in the last several months in favour of the accelerator plans, Hartley hoped that this remoteness wasn’t seen as rejection, but focus. He had to prove himself to Harrison, but he had to prove to his father that he was wrong, that he could do this.

He worked hard and he made progress. Without Harrison there, he took fewer breaks, he got more done. He didn’t waste time on trivialities like food, contenting himself with lukewarm cups of coffee and breakroom snacks, working late into the night and coming in early in the mornings. Hartley was content like this. He was lonely, but he felt that he could breathe.

On Sunday night, Harrison knocked on the open door of Hartley’s office. With a handful of chocolate-covered peanuts halfway to his mouth, Hartley looked up.

‘I haven’t seen you much in the past few days. How are you holding up? Any new bright ideas?’

Hartley shrugged, and was emboldened by the fact that he could look into Harrison’s eyes without a shiver running down his back. He could look at Harrison’s mouth without thinking about it upon his own.

‘ _Vitanda est improba syren desidia_ ,’ he replied.

‘One musts avoid Laziness, that wicked temptress. Horace, I believe?’ Harrison leaned against the door frame, all limbs and easy calm. ‘Do you know what else he said? _Dulce est desipere in loco._ It’s sweet to relax at the proper time. Come, play a game with me.’

Hartley finished his peanuts and followed Harrison to his glass office. The chessboard was already set. Hartley perched upon the chair he had at some point begun to think of as his own, and after placing a tumbler of whisky on either side of the board, Harrison sat opposite him.

‘You’re white. Begin.’ He leaned back, legs crossed, whisky raised to his lips.

They played slowly, in silence. Every move felt crucial, every taken pawn decisive. Harrison refilled Hartley’s whisky once, twice. Rooks, pawns, bishops and knights, exchanged. Hartley caught Harrison’s queen, and victory was in his grasp until he glanced over the board and saw the bishop whose path he had now cleared for the king.

‘Well played,’ he conceded and knocked over his own king. He made to rise, but maybe he had hooked his foot in one the legs of the chair, maybe it was because he hadn’t eaten in three days and was three whiskies deep, but he stumbled, tripped, about to fall. Harrison caught him, of course he did, one hand on his waist and the other grasping by his elbow, pulling him upright.

‘Are you alright?’ Harrison asked, and a thousand bees were buzzing in Hartley’s stomach again, the blood pulsed in his ears, and Harrison’s hands and eyes were on him.

‘I’m fine,’ he breathed, barely breathed, unable to quite remember how to do it.

Harrison’s face quirked, that half-smile on his lips. And then, his lips on Hartley’s.

His mouth was soft but the kiss was hard. His hands on Hartley’s face, holding him still, holding him in place. In the fantasies Hartley had allowed himself, Harrison’s kisses were calm and careful, like that first kiss. This could not be further from the truth, with Harrison biting hard in-between kisses, pushing himself closer, deeper. Hartley thought he could feel a barely contained violence in his kiss, an electric current running just below the surface. Hartley reached up to touch Harrison’s hair, Harrison’s face, and he almost yelped with pain when Harrison’s hand darted out and grabbed his wrist, tore it away, pressed down. He was somehow up against the wall at this point, Harrison’s body pushing down on him, forcing him against the glass, crushing him. One hand was still wrapped around his wrist, fingers held tight, sure to form a bruise. Hartley had never felt so breakable or aroused.

Harrison tangled his fingers in Hartley’s hair, pushed his head back, traced wet untidy kisses down his jaw, down his neck. He bit, hard, at the base of his throat and Hartley yelped in pain. Harrison murmured something in rebuke, bit harder as if to prove a point. Hartley wondered if he meant to demolish him, pick apart piece by piece, build something better from the scraps. Harrison’s hands were rough, running down his body, untucking his shirt, gliding fingers over bare skin and tracing down his front. Harrison laughed, but it was nothing more than a short exhale, a _ha!_ of wry amusement. He drew back, a little, and looked at his face. Hartley had been right about Harrison’s eyes, they were dark with intent, strangely focused and unfocused all at once. His fingers traced Hartley’s jaw, his tongue flicked out, ran along his lips. He spoke, his voice deep, rougher than his travelling hands.

‘You want to make me happy, don’t you, Hartley?’ Hartley nodded, desperate, unable to speak. Harrison smiled. ‘I’m so glad I can rely on you.’

He led him back through the glassed office, hands gentle now, fingers softly grasped around Hartley’s hands. When they reached his desk, Harrison leaned in and kissed him again, gingerly, carefully. He withdrew, sat down in his desk chair, and watched Hartley expectantly.

Hartley knew what he wanted, of course he did. He wasn’t stupid, and he’d done this before. But never like this, not with some, not _for_ someone he cared about as much as he cared for Harrison. Kneeling, he was struck by vertigo, the room fading for a second. God, he was drunk. He closed his eyes for a moment, so the world could right itself, so he wouldn’t pass out. His hands, placed lightly upon Harrison’s knees, a touch more intimate than he would have expected to be allowed. He opened his eyes again and looked at Harrison’s face. Beautiful, serene, and no longer untouchable.

Harrison smiled at him and tangled fingers in his hair. Hartley kept his eyes on Harrison as he, with trembling hands, undid his jeans, wrapped his hand around him, licked his lips, opened his mouth for him. Harrison gave a hiss of pleasure, tightened his grip on the locks of hair, tugged Hartley a little closer. Hartley choked for a second, tears in his eyes, then remembered to breathe, to swallow, to move (his tongue, his lips, his head). Harrison lolled his head back, a moan escaping tightly pressed lips. The world spun sharply again. Hartley focused on the things he was certain of: Harrison’s long fingers in his hair, gliding down his face, caressing his cheek, stroking along his jaw; Harrison’s sighs of contentment, small luxuriant sounds of desire; Harrison in his mouth, how important it was not to let him down. He let the soft requests ( _use your tongue a little more, yes, yes, like that_ ) and insistent demands ( _just a little deeper for me, yes, good boy_ ) navigate him through his disequilibrium.

Time slowed to a halt, and Hartley couldn’t tell how long he was on his knees, Harrison’s eyes on his face, Harrison’s mouth softly open, first quiet, then commanding, then words spilling like water from a burst pipe. _Faster, yes, oh, Christ, just like that, fuck, Hartley, yes yes yes –_  and Harrison thrust his hips up, pulled Hartley's head down, came for him. Hartley, gagging, swallowing, relieved, grateful. He withdrew, wiped his mouth with his thumb, and wondered what Harrison thought, seeing him like this. A smile playing on his lips, Harrison dressed himself and stroked Hartley’s face.

‘It’s late. We have an early start tomorrow. Hartley, you should go home and sleep.’ He got up and started clearing the table, setting the chessboard, removing the glasses. Hartley, still on his knees, watched him for a few moments, this long, slender man who seemed more like a god than a human, admiring the beauty of his motions, the care in everything he did.

Once Hartley stood up, Harrison seemed lost in studying a set of sketches, so he didn’t say goodnight, only let his hand graze the small of his back when he passed, a movement only repaid by a slight nod of the head. Hartley made it home, made it into bed, before he touched himself, coming almost at once. And the world, the world would not stop spinning so he stayed in bed, a mess still half-dressed, sleeping restlessly and dreaming, as always, of Harrison.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for homophobic slurs.

Hartley forgot to set an alarm, but woke in the early hours, heavy-headed and sore. He took a shower, shaved and looked at his bruises. A necklace of discolouration, a bracelet of fingerprints turning purple. He pressed down on his wrist, a deep thrill running from his stomach to his heart as the pain connected. He dressed carefully that morning, making sure his sleeves covered his wrists, that his collar covered the bites, a green tie distracting from the reddish-blue mark still visible by his right ear, only half-hidden by his shirt.

He bit his cheek as he walked to S.T.A.R. Labs, wondering if he should prepare for the silent treatment, if this was another misstep and if Harrison would treat him like nothing. By the time he pushed the doors open and wished Jacqueline a nice morning, his mouth tasted like iron. It made him feel alive.

‘Did you have a nice weekend, Hartley?’ He turned and saw Harrison approach, coming from the medical wing.

‘I did, yes.’ Hartley wondered if his lips were stained with blood, if Harrison would lick the blood off. ‘And you?’

‘Nothing short of perfect.’ Harrison’s smile was almost chaste, if you could ignore the twitch in his cheek, the depth in his grin.

They worked closely together that day, Harrison’s fingers tracing down Hartley’s back, soft, reassuring touches. Hartley drew strength from this touch, a further proof that this -- whatever _this_ is -- was real and not just a figment of his imagination. They ate lunch together in their workroom, Jacqueline bringing them salads as they discussed applications that the new HR representative had vetted, that waited for an interview and an offer. As she cleared away their lunch, she told them that there was a reporter wanting to speak to them both when they were ready. As she left, Harrison loosened his tie, looked at Hartley, a challenge in his eyes. Hartley approached and began to tie a Windsor knot, much neater than the previous knot, and Harrison pulled him close, down into his lap. Languid kisses, Harrison’s fingers ran through his hair, ruining the morning’s extra effort. Hartley kept his hands close, stayed on the collar and tie, tracing Harrison’s jawline with careful fingers. Soon, far too soon, Harrison pulled away.

‘We can’t leave the press waiting too long.’ He smoothed Hartley’s hair down, moving stray hairs to the right side of the parting. ‘Shall we?’

Harrison did most of the talking in the interview, occasionally prompting Hartley to explain certain aspects. For the most part, Hartley watched Harrison, admiring his easy smiles, the dimples in his cheeks, how his ears, larger than average, were hidden by an unruly mop of hair. He heard the click of the photographer’s camera and was prompted to turn, to smile at the camera. Once the interview wrapped up, Hartley followed Harrison as he led the duo to the exit. On their way back to their workroom, Harrison pulled him into an empty office and ran his hands down his face, his body, taking, taking, taking. He did not lock the door but Hartley slid to his knees, savouring the risk of discovery, Harrison’s hand in his hair, Harrison’s murmured words. Afterwards, Harrison untangled his hair, smiled the smallest smile and left the room. Hartley hid in a bathroom stall, getting off in moments.

That was how it was. It became a routine, almost, but routine was the wrong word, because every time was as scintillating as the first. Habit, then. Fix. Harrison was the drug that Hartley would not kick. In public, things were unchanged, Harrison might touch him in passing a little more often, but nothing no one but Hartley would notice. Then were the moments when Harrison would pull him aside, level his gaze in a certain way, spread his legs a little wider, and Hartley was drawn in close. He lived for this, for Harrison’s deep kisses, his rough hands, the privilege of making him climax. It happened often, not daily, but often enough that a couple of days without it left Hartley with a knot in his stomach, a worry about what caused this rejection. And when Harrison touched his wrist again, unspoken request clear, Hartley felt like he could fly. Harrison never touched him, never got on his knees for him. His fingers, perhaps, would graze over Hartley’s pants as he roamed his body, but the touch seemed unintentional, leading to nothing. Hartley wondered why he wouldn’t. Did he see himself as too straight? Getting sucked off by a man half your age is one thing, but doing it to him? He didn’t want to ask; he didn’t want to jeopardize this. So he took Harrison in mouth, and later, privately, himself in hand, thinking about the things he wanted Harrison to do to him.

The first time Harrison fucked him, Hartley bit his arm to stifle the scream of pain. Harrison had pressed Hartley against his desk and kissed him, ravenous kisses, devouring kisses, yet unable to satisfy. Then, his violent hands at Hartley’s waist, travelling down with intent, and for a moment he thought that Harrison would – but no, he spun him around, fingers on bare skin, holding him down, keeping him in place. Harrison, too impatient to truly prepare him, pushed. Hartley, delirious from pain and elation, tried to breathe but, _God_ , Harrison’s hands were on him, promising bruised medallions on his hips, Harrison was inside him, and this was all he ever wanted. When he looked back on it, later, he couldn’t remember much, snatches of sensory cacophony, but what he remembered so clearly, the moment he returned to so many times, was when Harrison finally touched him, long spidery fingers finally making him come, and his murmured words – _my precious boy_ – as he finished, heavy on top of Hartley. He left, as always. The bruise on Hartley’s arm blossomed purple, green, yellow, a beatified reminder once the pain faded.

After that first time, there was a second, a third, enough times for Hartley to lose count. He wasn’t forced on his knees as much, Harrison quickly growing to prefer him pressed up against a lab desk, a wall, anything for Hartley to hold onto while Harrison claimed him. He never stayed afterwards, always leaving without a word, without a reassuring touch. He would leave Hartley half-dressed and shivering. He would restrain him, discipline him, if he misbehaved, if he tried to touch himself without permission, if his pained moans were too loud. Harrison would remind him what a privilege this was, that he had to behave. He would remind Hartley that this was what he wanted, press his fingers into bruising skin until Hartley agreed, until he told Harrison in a frantic stream of words that yes, yes, this was what he wanted, that he was so grateful, that he was nothing without Harrison. He would feel his smile pressed against his throat and all the pain was be worth it. He would give anything for Harrison’s pleasure; he would give everything for Harrison’s joy. He cherished the bruises that Harrison left behind, wore them like secret badges of honour, like marks of property. He was owned. He was content.

 

* * *

 

The Central City Christmas Ball was a charity gala arranged by the mayor’s office, an excuse for the good and mighty of Central City to complain about the quality of the champagne and feel generous in the season of giving. Harrison Wells, naturally, was invited. That he decided to bring Hartley Rathaway along was a less obvious choice. The elite of the city knew that Wells’ wife had died years ago, but they had assumed that, hidden away somewhere, he had a beautiful mistress, or that he at least knew some woman happy to be on his arm for the evening. They expected him to have some decency. Instead he brought a persona non grata, the man whose name had been scrubbed clean from the mind of society.

Hartley thought he could hear the din of the ballroom quiet and bellow as they entered the room together. He recognised so many of the faces, and he wondered what they thought. He wondered, too, if his parents were here, and what they would do if they saw him. He thought about the disgust etched in every line of his father’s face 

He had not wanted to go. He had refused when Harrison first suggested it, even though it was more a command than an invitation. (He had been brutal that night, a sharper kind of violence than the one Hartley craved.) The next few days, Harrison had been complimentary, kind, soft. He had praised him for small things in front of the rest of the team now working with them on the accelerator, people Hartley did not care about and whose approval meant nothing. But Harrison’s approval did, and over the course of a week, his gracious words, usually given in such small amounts, wore Hartley down. So, too, did the tenderness with which had he kissed him, the way he had navigated his body, how it almost felt like making love. _I need you there with me, Hartley_ , he had whispered into the nooks of Hartley’s body. So he had relented.

Harrison was at his side, a hand hovering by his elbow, navigating him through the room. He kept their champagne flutes filled; he introduced Hartley to men and women of note. Some of these Hartley had met before, while he had still been groomed to take over the family business, but they all acted as though it was a first meeting. As if Hartley was a being that Harrison had created, a golem made of science and pure devotion. It would be easier if he had been, if he hadn’t been flesh and blood, disappointment and desire. He smiled weakly at their niceties and thought about going home. He thought about Harrison in his bed, a rare boon he was sometimes granted. He never stayed the night, as always left soon after he was finished. But the softness of the bed made the hardness in which he took him that much more exciting, that much more tantalizing. Last time, Harrison had tied him up, made him beg. Thinking about it made him hot and on edge. He politely laughed at a bad joke and finished another glass of champagne. He glanced at Harrison, who was making excuses and complaining about the constant need to mingle. The soft touch on his elbow again. Harrison led him away, and they turned, coming face to face with Osgood Rathaway.

Hartley hadn’t seen his father since he had been thrown out, and he somehow looked different now. Smaller, less imposing. But despite this, his blood ran cold and he found himself unable to move. He remembered, very clearly, the insults that rained down on him that day, the disgust and fury on his father’s face. For a second, Osgood stared at him, distaste, anger and – fear? Then his face smooths over and he turns to Harrison, a false calm on his face.

‘Mr Wells,’ he nods his head and does not extend a hand. ‘I did not know you were invited.’

‘Doctor Wells, please, Mr Rathaway.’ Harrison’s smile is too broad to be genuine. Hartley feels Harrison’s hand move from his elbow to the small of his back, gently pressing down, his thumb rubbing slow circles. He had never before touched him like this, not openly. ‘I worked hard for that honorific. I appreciate it being remembered. And yes, they somehow let riffraff like me in. But you should know they do that – you are here, too.’

Osgood’s eye twitched, a small tic that Hartley recognised well. It was the sign of trouble, of a reprimand to come. He had a knack for staying cool in public, and exploding in private. His anger, Hartley had learnt at a young age, was enough to shatter glass.

‘And how is your little – hm – project coming along?’ Hartley thought he saw his father’s eyes dart to him, but maybe not. His face was set, his lips pursed. ‘Your accelerator, is it? Free energy for the city? It’s a foolish notion.’ 

‘It’s a notion that will drive you out of business, isn’t it? You built your fortune on oil and coal. How ironic it would be if our accelerator would be your downfall.’

 _Our accelerator_. Hartley glanced at Harrison, at his smirk and critical eyes. Osgood spoke through gritted teeth.

‘You will fail, mr Wells, and I will be glad when you do. It might teach a lesson about fraternising with faggots.’

Hartley made a sound, a small squeak from the bottom of his throat. This wasn’t worse than anything else his father had said the last time they had been face to face, but he had not expected him to say anything at all. He had not expected him to acknowledge his existence. Harrison’s hand on his back moved, fingers snaked in under his tuxedo jacket, now only one layer of cotton between them and bare skin. A reassuring touch, supportive. Almost loving.

‘Are you referring to your son, Osgood? He is the most brilliant man I have ever had the pleasure to work with, and he’s a hundred times the man you could ever be. Now, if you’ll excuse us,’ and Harrison seemed to move closer, hand nestling around Hartley’s waist, and Osgood paled in apoplectic fury, ‘we have things to attend to. Happy holidays, mr Rathaway.’

As Harrison led him away, hand now retreating, returning to a soft touch against his arm, Hartley started to shake, despite the heat of the room.

‘He will destroy you,’ he murmured. Harrison laughed.

‘Oh, he can try. Did you know that S.T.A.R. Labs is the private organisation with the highest approval rating in all of Central City? Rathaway Industries wasn’t even in the top ten. Hartley, the people want this accelerator. This city needs it. And your father, and his frankly neolithic opinions, is not going to stop us.’ Harrison had led them to an empty hallway, the rest of the party just a distant din. One hand was on his shoulder, a thumb running over his collar bone. It was an intimate touch, different from what he was used to. Different, too, was the way Harrison’s fingers lifted his face. ‘Alright?’

‘Alright.’

Harrison backed Hartley up against the wall, drawing him into slow, gentle kisses, his hands roving beneath Hartley’s tuxedo jacket, coming to rest on his waist, pulling him closer. Hartley’s fingers nestled in Harrison’s hair, pulling him down. This was at odds with what he had grown used to, over the past few months, the determined way Harrison would hold him, how hungry kisses led to Harrison’s hands – never Hartley’s – undressing them, pulling at clothes and setting the scene. Harrison never let Hartley touch his face, his hair. These kisses were unhurried, patient; his hands stayed at Hartley’s waist, pulling him just slightly closer, pushing him just slightly against the wall. Hartley relished this: the chance to run his fingers through Harrison’s hair; the chance to feel him close like this; the knowledge that all he would do is hold him; that he would not tear off his clothes in a darkened hallway of the City Hall.

When Harrison pulled back, shaking his head to make Hartley’s fingers drop, he leaned his forehead against Hartley’s and traced patterns up his sides.

‘One more round of mingling, I think, and then I’ll take you home.’

As Hartley followed Harrison, who greeted millionaires as investors and philanthropists as old friends, he kept his glass full and an eye out for his father. There was no sign of his father and the champagne slipped down far too easily. By the time Harrison nudged him towards the exit, Hartley’s words were slurred, his steps were bumbling. He felt Harrison navigate him into a waiting taxi; he felt Harrison’s shoulder as he rested his head upon it; he felt strong arms lift him, carry him and drop him in a bed. He hadn’t heard the _ding_ of the elevator; he hadn’t felt anyone rummage in his inside pockets for his keys; he hadn’t the slightest idea where he was and he didn’t really care. He felt his shoes being removed, his trousers unbuttoned, someone lifting him up and pulling off shirt and jacket in one movement. He felt fingers run along his body, kisses tracing down his stomach. He lost the will to stay awake and he faded, drifting into a deep and heavy sleep.

 

* * *

 

Hartley woke up the next morning, head pounding and mouth dry, in a room he had never seen before. It was airy and bright with a glass roof. He sat up and realised he must be in Harrison’s home. On a wooden chair next to the bed lay a neat pile of clothes and an unopened bottle of water. 

‘Oh, you’re awake.’ Harrison was leaning against the doorframe, his hands wrapped around a steaming mug. ‘If you get up now you won’t be late. I’ll call you a cab.’

He nodded towards the pile of clothes and left. Hartley got out of the bed, every fibre in his body telling him to get back in, sleep another five hours, never move again, convince Harrison to come to bed with him. He finished the water bottle in one go, hoping it would make him feel a little more human. It didn’t. He shrugged into the shirt and pulled on the jeans and wondered why they fit so well. They didn’t quite seem new – they lacked the crisp feeling of clothes fresh from the store and they smelled slightly of detergent – and Hartley wondered if they belonged to some other boy, some admirer as slight as him, who had begged to leave in Harrison’s clothes, as a reward for services well rendered. Hartley bit down hard on the inside of his cheek and tried, instead, to remember what it is he could not be late for. Something with work. There was always work.

Harrison showed up once he was dressed and led him toward the door. Hartley tried to pay attention as he marvelled at the house.

‘The investors will be in Conference Room B, so make sure you don’t go to Conference Room A. The latest figures are on my desk. And you’re prepared to give the update?’ Hartley remembered now that the meeting he could not be late for was an investors’ presentation. He remembered that he had promised to tell them where they were in the particle accelerator project. He remembered that he had planned on drafting that speech the morning of. Today. He had not prepared the speech and his brain was trying to escape out of his head. ‘Ronnie is ready to present some of the engineering issues and Caitlin has prepared something on the medical potentials. Did you know they’re dating?’

‘Ronnie won’t shut up about it.’ Hartley ran a hand through his hair and wondered if he looked as rough as he felt. He wanted to stay in this house, this creation of glass and mahogany and iron, but he had to go.

‘Here’s your ride.’ Harrison opened the front door. ‘I’ll be coming in later. Let me know how it goes.’

In the car, Hartley went through his phone and tried to remember what had happened last night. He remembered meeting his father; he remembered the kisses in the hallway; he remembered very little after that. When the car arrived at S.T.A.R. Labs, Hartley hurried to pick up the documents on Harrison’s desk, stopping to grab a toothbrush and a pullover from his own office. He splashed his face and looked at himself in the bathroom mirror. He looked fine. A little pale, but nothing anyone would notice. In the staff snack room he reluctantly ate a granola bar – food feeling wrong in his stomach – and poured a can of coke into one of the coffee mugs. He needed sugar, not caffeine, but one has to keep up appearances. Hartley Rathaway was not a soda drinker. 

In Conference Room B, Caitlin and Ronnie were sitting toward the top of the table, holding hands and mumbling nothings to each other. Of the S.T.A.R. Labs employees, they weren’t the worst – they did their jobs, and they were mostly polite. He glanced at the clock – there were still ten minutes before the meeting.

‘Good morning,’ he walked past them and placed his things at the head of the table: folders, pens, and tablet neatly laid out.

‘You look rough,’ was Ronnie’s greeting. ‘Did you stay at your girlfriend’s house?’

Hartley changed his mind. He did not care for these people.

‘I don’t go for girls, Raymond.’

‘Boyfriend, then?’ he prompted, as Caitlin asked:

‘Are you gay?’ she looked genuinely confused, and Hartley forgot for a moment that not everyone was privy to the whispers of the Central City gossip and that she, probably, had not heard the story of how he had been disowned.

‘No and yes,’ he replied to both, going through Harrison’s notes, taking sips of liquid sugar, not looking up at either. He decided to address Ronnie’s earlier point. ‘Harrison and I were at the Central City Christmas Ball last night. It ended late.’

‘The ball!’ Caitlin gave an excited sound, while Ronnie conspicuously cleared his throat. ‘Was it nice? Was Dr Wells handsome in his tux?’

‘It was an acceptable event,’ Hartley replied, glancing up to see Ronnie looking at Caitlin with false jealousy. Harrison had been very handsome in his tux. ‘I met my father, but otherwise it was pleasant. The champagne was dry.’

‘Ronnie, everyone looks good in a tux. Probably even Hartley. So, why don’t you like your dad?’ Caitlin asked, that stupid confused expression back on her face.

‘My father said I was a filthy good-for-nothing faggot who was a disgrace to the family name, that it would have been better if I had never been born and that I have always been a disappointment to him and my mother.’ He turned a page and did not look up. He willed his fingers not to shake. ‘Now, we have a presentation to do in a couple of minutes – are you ready with your demonstrations?’

He glanced up. Both Caitlin and Ronnie stared at him, jaws slack, eyes blinking dumbly.

‘Oh, and don’t hold hands during the presentation. It is very unprofessional.’

Before they could reply, the investors filed in, led by Jacqueline. The couple schooled their faces, but Hartley could sense them both glance nervously at him, as though this was a new development that they were not sure how to deal with. The presentation went smoothly. Hartley smoothly spoke about the particle accelerator, without notes, without preparation. Both Ronnie and Caitlin, Hartley had to admit, did admirably, explaining complicated issues to the rich but undereducated men in the room without talking down to them. As the presentation drew towards its conclusion, Hartley reiterated that the accelerator would be up and running by the end of 2013 and that all their money was being well spent. When he asked if anyone had any questions at this time, Reginald Smith, the oldest, fogiest and angriest of the investors, raised a hand.

‘Thank you for your presentation, boy. This morning, while I was getting ready to leave for this meeting, I had the strangest phone call.’ Mr Smith was in late eighties, and every time he spoke, he had to tell a story. ‘You see, Osgood Rathaway called me up and told me not to come to this meeting and to withdraw all my funding. Can you tell me why he’d do that?’

Half a dozen old men looked at the three young lab employees who stood frozen by the projector screen. Hartley’s brain had slowed to impulse, there was nothing he could say to explain the situation without Mr Smith deciding to side with Osgood, to leave with the money they so desperately needed.

‘Mr Smith, I can explain.’ Harrison appeared in the doorway, like manna from heaven. ‘As I am sure you know, Hartley here is Osgood’s son. A while back, they had a – _hm_ – disagreement and Osgood told him to leave his family home. Yes, I know, there isn’t much of a resemblance; I haven’t met his wife but I assume he takes after her.’ He circled towards the front of the room as he spoke, coming to a halt and placing a hand on Hartley’s shoulder, showing him off. ‘But that is beside the point. Yesterday, young Mr Rathaway and myself had the opportunity, or perhaps misfortune, to run into Osgood Rathaway. He wasted no time telling us that we, the particle accelerator and everyone interested in its success,’ _including you, Mr Smith_ , he seemed to say with his eyes trained on the man, ‘are fools. He is nothing but a jealous man, scared of progress. Please don’t pay him any mind.’

Harrison smiled and Hartley had never wanted to kiss him so badly. He wondered if it showed on his face, the pure unadulterated devotion that was burning a hole through his heart, if rumours would be whispering down the halls of S.T.A.R. Labs before the day was out. Mr Smith nodded.

‘I see. I think I speak for all of us, Dr Wells, when I say we are grateful for the work you do. Thank you.’

Harrison shook hands with the investors, asking about their grandchildren and their houses on the coast. As they filed out, Caitlin sidled up to Hartley, arms crossed, awkwardly hunched.

‘I’m sorry for I said earlier. I didn’t know.’

‘I really don’t care.’

‘Do you want to talk about it?’

‘With you?’ Hartley laughed. ‘No. Stay with the medicine.’

He gathered his materials and left the room before Caitlin could say anything else.

When Harrison came to his office later that day, Hartley thanked him. When he locked the office door and took his face in his hands, Hartley ignored the consequences and initiated the kiss, pushing close and whispering _thank you_ s. When Harrison grabbed his hair, hands rough again, and threw him down on his desk, scattering papers and pens, Hartley greedily accepted the pain and thanked him. When Harrison’s hands ran down his body, when his fingers grasped his throat, when he pressed inside him, Hartley fell apart, willing to be shaped by Harrison’s every urge, a mess of words falling out of his mouth. _Thank you thank you I love you._


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for sexual violence/abusive behaviour.

Changing the world takes time, and creating the tools to change the world takes longer still. The next year was slow, with countless obstacles to trip over, countless late nights. But the work was worth it, because it was for Harrison. Harrison put more responsibility on Hartley’s shoulders, ordering him to lead work teams, prepare news briefs for the media every few weeks, in all but name a co-director of the accelerator project. _The accelerator_ , Harrison would say in interviews, on Sunday morning breakfast shows, to investors asking about the project. _Our accelerator_ , Harrison would say over games of chess, during long lunches during Saturday work hours, before he would pull him in for a kiss.

Harrison would show him off, bring him to conferences in cities where no one knew the name Rathaway, where Harrison could present as his own creation. Hartley relished those conferences, during which Harrison might even keep a hand on the small of his back, lean in close and whisper in his ear in public. Harrison would bring him to charity events, smiling as he would tell everyone how indispensable he was. Hartley would listen, and hear the murmurs, the rumours. _I don’t think Wells is queer. But_ he _is definitely._ Hartley wondered if Harrison knew about them. _Did you know his father kicked him out? Was it because of Wells? I don’t know, but_ look _at them!_

Once, at an engineering briefing, Ronnie leaned in and asked, _so, you and the doctor_. Hartley gave him a blank look until he backtracked, until he promised an updated report before end of day. Hartley knew how Harrison might react if he knew about this, so he didn’t tell him, couldn’t tell him, not when he took him to his house, not when he let him stay the night, not when he was woken up by Harrison getting into the guest bed, pressing himself against him. He asked himself, sometimes, if he should talk to Harrison about this – relationship? affair? arrangement? – and determine what this was, but he knew it was precious and it was fragile, and he did not want to risk it. He was used to Harrison’s temper now, how he flared when disobeyed; he knew how to speak with him without risking his wrath, how to avoid his words and fists. Sometimes he pushed a little too hard, well aware that he overstepped, excited about the punishment. He was good at covering his bruises by now: he knew what collars best hid the marks; which of his shirts best covered his wrists. He would push down on the bruises to help him focus, the thrill of the pain a better kick than coffee.

There were nights when Harrison was gentle, holding him close and telling him how important he was, how Harrison could not do this without him, how happy he was to have someone who truly understood him, how he did not think that Hartley understood how much he wanted him. These nights were exhilarating and terrifying for Hartley, so at odds with how they usually operated. Those nights it was particularly hard for Hartley not to open his mouth and utter the three words that would ruin everything.

In the mornings, though, Harrison would always be the same, cool and professional, regardless of how he had acted the night before.

On Hartley’s second anniversary as an employee of S.T.A.R. Labs, Harrison took him out to the same French restaurant they had visited during Hartley’s first nervous week. Again, they ate mussels, and Hartley asked if Harrison knew about cutlery. Harrison, fingers in mouth, laughed and said Hartley should know him better than that by now.

This was how Hartley wanted his life. This was good.

And along came Cisco Ramon.

 

* * *

 

It was a Friday, and it had carried on as Fridays usually did. A morning meeting with Harrison over coffee, reviewing next week’s schedule. Then briefings with the engineers, medical staff, supervising tests and debating improvements. In the last year, Hartley had moved from mostly independent work to supervisory work. He enjoyed it less, having to deal with all his dull colleagues and their boring chitchat, but at least he could make sure that the accelerator was proceeding according to schedule. He knew his subordinates did not care for him, but it mattered little. Harrison’s smiles and the success of their work was all that drove him. He supervised simulations, suggested corrections, typed notes about work performance. Lunch with Harrison, salads eaten while discussing a paper from a recent conference. Hartley had not cared for the theories; Harrison claimed they were the future. In the last few months, he had gained the confidence to contradict Harrison, now knowing that not every disagreement would leave to a slap on the wrist – or worse. Harrison indulged these debates, forcing Hartley to recall his childhood rhetoric classes, remaster skills he had abandoned when he left the high school debate team. He rarely won, but the glint in Harrison’s eye when he made a good point was reward enough.

After finishing lunch, Harrison drew out his chess board. For the last few months, they had played a game every Friday, regular as clockwork. Sometimes, too, Harrison would pull the board out in the late evenings, but the pieces would inevitably be knocked over when he leaned over the table to reach for Hartley. But the Friday game was for play, not foreplay. Hartley kept track of the victories: nine for Harrison, five for Hartley. That Friday, it was going well. He could see himself winning the game. He could see Harrison asking him to stay late, running his fingers through his hair, telling him that he was valuable. The bandied Latin, uttered as he took his rook and paved the way towards victory, was self-indulgent but Harrison played along, met his eye and moved his second rook to victory. The king was dead. Hartley laughed, shook his head, a little embarrassed at having missed that obvious move. One day he would win as many games as he lost.

Then, the knock on the doorframe. Then, Cisco Ramon.

A murmur grew in Hartley’s ears as Harrison smiled at the man-boy and his shaggy ponytail, his clearance sale suit jacket and his awful t-shirt. The murmur grew to a din as Harrison spoke the kid’s name with such excitement, as he shook his head. The din grew to a roar as Harrison praised this Cisco Ramon in ways Hartley had only ever heard Harrison praise him before. _One of the finest mechanical engineers I have ever seen._ Hartley swallowed when he saw Harrison’s hand close down on his shoulder, a green sickness floating in his stomach. Ramon’s grin, his excitement, his youth, everything stacking up against him. _An invaluable member of your team. Trust me_.

Hartley wanted to get out of his chair, he wanted to rip Ramon’s heart out with his bare hands, he wanted to stomp and scream and punch Harrison in his perfect face. Trust him? If Harrison knew the first thing about Hartley, gave a first damn about him, he would know he didn’t have to ask for his trust. He tried to loosen his body, school his face, respond with a level voice. Later on, he knew he would squeeze down on his bruises, clear the drumming in his ears, calm the thrumming of his blood. But not now. Not in front of Harrison. Not in front of this insult.

Harrison asked Cisco for a moment – he called him _Cisco_ , not Ramon, and how many months before Harrison asked Hartley to call him Harrison, asked for permission to call him Hartley? Cisco – stupid, cursed Cisco – obeyed with a meek _yes, sir_. Harrison stood there, hands in pockets, looking at Hartley. Waiting for an explanation. He could hear how seething his words were and wondered that Harrison didn’t step closer, a warning against his disobedience. Harrison’s response was calm, and Hartley hated how he talked about his _feeling_ , how he drew a parallel between him and this cretin. He wanted to claw his eyes out, kick a chair, send the chess set clattering to the ground, but he looked away and made a dismissive sound.

Harrison knew something was wrong, of course he did.

‘Hartley. You’re still my guy. Nothing and no one,’ he glanced towards the door, ‘is ever going to change that.’

Harrison placed a chess piece he had been holding in a closed fist. The white queen. Hartley’s queen. Hartley stared at the piece until Harrison spoke again, leaning closer to him, his low, gravelled voice piercing Hartley’s ears.

‘Cisco – Mr Ramon – will be working with Ronnie. You and Ronnie will train him together. _You_ are responsible for his success. I want you to give him the S.T.A.R. Labs tour today, show him where his desk will be. He officially starts on Monday. Is that understood?’

Hartley met his gaze.

‘Yes, sir.’

 

* * *

 

The rest of that day was torture, every moment with Cisco Ramon like needles pushed under his fingernails. Cisco, with his terrible clothes and his _oh mans_ , with his open, juvenile admiration of Harrison Wells. Hartley glanced at him and wondered if Harrison had touched him. If that was why called him Cisco, not Ramon, if that was why Cisco smiled so nervously and admiringly at him. He wondered how Harrison had done it, where he had found him. If Cisco asked for it or Harrison insisted. One week, Hartley told himself. Cisco Ramon wouldn’t last one week. Ronnie had left for the day, his stupid anniversary weekend, and Hartley dropped Cisco as soon as he could. He left early that day and did not go to his scheduled afternoon meeting with Harrison.

That weekend, he bought three packs of cigarettes and finished them before Sunday night was over. He took materials home and worked there, drawing up scenarios, running calculations. Stayed away from Harrison Wells. Tried not to think of Cisco Ramon. The nicotine kept him up and he did not sleep, but lay in bed, awake. The nicotine sucked away his hunger, so he did not eat. He stayed in the shower too long and thought of Harrison, and then he thought of Cisco and he wanted to throw up, to erase him from existence. He cried in the shower, cried for the first time since he could remember, the first time since he had left his father’s home. The water ran cold when he finally turned it off, when he dried his hair and lit his final cigarette. He wandered round his apartment and wondered where Harrison was tonight. He wondered if Cisco was with him. He wondered how it felt to rip someone’s heart out.

On Monday, he bought a new pack of cigarettes and lit one on his walk to work. Arriving, he found Cisco Ramon shivering outside the front doors of S.T.A.R. Labs. He was wearing some ratty awful hoodie, jeans and sneakers. It was below freezing and Hartley looked at him, feigning disinterest, while he finished his cigarette.

‘I’d thought I’d be early on my first day. I didn’t think about the doors being locked.’ He was jumping up and down, patting his arms to keep warm, his hair falling in his face with each leap. ‘Could you let me in? Sir?’ Hartley stubbed his cigarette out with his boot. He swiped his keycard and let them both in. He led Cisco through the building, towards his office and Cisco’s work bench. Cisco was talking, telling stories about how long he had dreamt of just _meeting_ Harrison Wells, not to mention _working_ for him. Hartley was so close to asking _what about being fucked by him_ when Harrison appeared from his office.

‘Good morning.’ He took a sip of coffee as he looked at them. He smiled at Cisco, not at Hartley. ‘Cisco, nice to see you here prompt and early. Are you a coffee man? There’s a new pot from ten minutes ago. Just down the corridor to the left.’ Cisco lit up and thanked him, moved away. ‘Hartley, where were you this weekend?’

‘I was not feeling well,’ Hartley replied, feeling wretched for how smooth the lie felt. He had been used to lying to his parents – he had been practising all his life at it – but he did not like lying to Harrison.

‘I had work here I needed your help on,’ his voice was neutral, as though he was discussing the weather or apologising for stepping on a stranger’s foot. It frightened Hartley.

‘You could have called me.’

‘So could you.’ Harrison turned and walked to the break room. Hartley could hear them, Harrison’s dulcet tones, Cisco’s high-pitched laugh. Hartley stayed still for a moment before he joined them, before he reached between them to grab the coffee pot. He poured himself the dregs of coffee as Cisco laughed at Harrison’s morning chitchat.

‘Come, let me show you to your desk,’ and Harrison’s hand was on Cisco, firm between his shoulder blades. Hartley followed, watching the easy smile on Harrison’s lips, listening to him drawl on about how excited he was to have Cisco be one of their new stars. He wondered, yet again, how he found him and what he has done to him. He wondered if he had ever been special, or there had always been others. If he was one in a line, not even the first, not even worth the time anymore.

The next days were salt rubbed into fresh wounds. Cisco was the constant dripping of water, hollowing out Hartley. His fingers reached for his wrists, to press down, to find relief, but the bruises were fading. Harrison did not call him into his office to refresh them; he did not wait for him after hours. Every time Harrison looked at Cisco, Hartley wanted to rip his throat out. Harrison’s throat, Cisco’s throat. It would not really matter. Harrison would walk up to Cisco and compliment him for small things that did not warrant compliment, he would smile at him, that wide leonine leer he had always kept reserved for Hartley. He would invite Cisco to their lunch meetings, talking more to him than Hartley. Hartley’s eyes were drawn to Cisco’s unbruised wrists, his unmarked neck. Every day he looked at them, and every day they stayed the same. Every day brought a new stupid shirt, but never long sleeves, never covering up. Hartley considered where else he might be bruising.

He was angrier than he had ever been before, every moment with Cisco was a slight, every soft question of Harrison’s an insult. Ronnie’s mid-week report was returned with corrections in red, poor grammar circled, no acknowledgment of his effort. Ronnie knocked on his office door and asked everything was alright, if there was anything he wanted to chat about. Through the open door he saw Harrison bring a folder to Cisco, explain something. His excited, youthful face lit up, the smile reflecting on Harrison’s face. Hartley wanted to beat them both bloody.

‘No Ronnie, I am fine. Get back to work.’

He knocked over his empty coffee cup – an accident – and cut his hand as he picked up the pieces – another accident, of course. The stinging pain pierced through his anger, giving a blessed moment of relief. He watched the blood bud in the cuts, watched it drip down his fingers. He stood transfixed, relishing the pain, the sudden clarity of his mind. Everything was fine. Everything would be fine.

‘Sir, I was wondering – shit, man, are you okay?’ Then Cisco was at his side, a Big Belly Burger napkin mopping up the blood, another under his hand, collecting the droplets. He manhandled Hartley to the break room, to the closest first aid kit. ‘Dude, what happened?’

Hartley wondered if Cisco saw this as a bonding experience.

‘I dropped my mug. I cut myself when I picked up the pieces. _Obviously_.’

The pain was barely noticeable now, only flaring up when Cisco mopped at the blood with the drenched napkin.

‘You cut it deep, man. We’ve got to disinfect this.’ Hartley opened his mouth to protest, to say he was fine, but Cisco already had slid his fingers beneath his cuff, unbuttoning it, pushing it up so he could wash the wound and – stopped. The bruises were fading, true, but they were still a mottled yellow and green, deeper colour where Harrison had pressed his fingertips harder. The bruises were more than a week old. It had been more than a week since Harrison had touched him. Cisco was frozen in place, staring at the bruises, fingers still grasped on Hartley’s cuff. He opened and closed his mouth a few times. ‘Are you okay?’

He glanced up at Hartley, and he felt a thrill of satisfaction that Cisco was shorter and had to look up at him, but his eyes were concerned, apprehensive. All satisfaction was wiped away by that frown between his eyebrows, that genuine worry in imprinted on his face. Another mockery.

‘I’m _fine_ ,’ Hartley ripped his hand away. ‘Get back to work.’

Cisco stayed for a beat, two, as Hartley ran his hand under the tap, as he scrubbed his cuts with soap, as he dried it down. Then he left, heels over head. Hartley was rough with the bandage, pulling it tight and letting it constrict the blood flow. It was his left hand he had cut up. He would still be able to work. He would still be better than Cisco. Back in his office, he closed the door and worked in silence. When the knock on the door came, when Harrison poked his head through the door frame, he realised he had worked through lunch and was late to their Thursday round-up meeting.

‘What happened to your hand?’ Harrison nodded at his bandaged hand as they walked to his office.

‘I dropped a coffee mug. It was nothing.’ Hartley sat down in the chair he always sat in, massaged his wound, watched Harrison draw and lock the glass door. Everyone who wanted to could see them, but at least they would not be overheard. He wanted to reach out and touch Harrison, find some kind of reassurance.

‘Getting clumsy in your old age?’ Harrison laughed into his coffee cup. Hartley could probably count on one hand the times he’d seen Harrison without a mug in this office, if he disregarded the times when his hands were wrapped around Hartley instead.

‘I’m not that old,’ Hartley thought of Cisco’s wide-eyed innocence and youth and felt very old.

They chatted for a few minutes: Harrison, languid and at ease, stretched across his desk chair. Hartley, knees together, shoulders tight, prim and proper. Harrison told him what had been discussed at the investor’s board meeting, Caitlin’s new research project, her and Ronnie’s weekend away. How Ronnie was doing excellent work.

‘And how is Cisco doing?’ Harrison asked, eyes trained on Hartley. He couldn’t meet the gaze.

‘Adequately.’

‘Adequately? Hartley, he must be doing better than adequately – you’ve seen his resume.’

‘No, I haven’t.’ Hartley heard his anger, his hurt, and he was unable to quell it. ‘I have not seen his resume; I do not know him from Adam. All I know is that you, God knows when, picked him up and decided he’s the next big thing.’

‘Why are you angry about this?’

‘Why I’m – why am I angry about this?’ He swallowed, he looked away, he tried to extinguish the words threatening to come out, tried to think of some convincing lie. ‘I am angry because I don’t know who he is, because earlier you _talked_ to me about any new hires, but no, not this time. This time, I am expected to just _accept_ some ill-dressed, ill-mannered _lout_ , for me to work with someone who doesn’t seem to have the _first_ idea how to be professional, how to act like an adult. And you don’t tell me anything. Why? Why is he so special? You said you had a good feeling about him. Well, Harrison, what kind of feeling is that?’ he drew a breath, he heard how he faltered, he knew that he was embarrassing himself, embarrassing Harrison, but he could not stop. ‘Are you touching him? Are you fucking him? Is that why he’s here?’

Hartley stopped, finally stopped, sick to his stomach that he had lost control in front of Harrison, that he let Harrison see his vulnerabilities, that he despite this wanted Harrison to console him, to tell him that he still is the special one, the golden son, the one with whom he will change the world. Hartley blinked away the tears from his eyes, leaned back in his chair, hoped that his growls had not travelled through the glass.

But Harrison just looked at him, pursed his lips, exhaled through his nose. Hartley wondered what he would say if he had continued, if he had admitted how his heart wrenched when he say Harrison’s fingers trace along Cisco’s arm, when he would catch Harrison looking at Cisco, approval and excitement in his eyes. He wondered if it would make a difference.

‘Here is Cisco’s file. You seem tired. Go home, take it with you. I hope you feel better in the morning.’

Harrison pushed the file over and, turning his chair, opened his laptop. Hartley was dismissed.

 

* * *

 

Hartley read through Cisco’s file (bona fide genius and goober) and threw it across the room. He spent the afternoon and evening sprawled across an armchair, smoking and occasionally measuring out fingers of whisky. It was a fine malt, a Christmas gift from Harrison that he had been savouring, doling out as a reward when he was especially praised. But today he did not care. He splashed the water in without care, let the whisky spill as he swirled the glass, too diluted at one point, too strong at another. He did not care about the toffee backbone, the whisper of bonfire smoke, the aftertaste of vanilla on his tongue. He thought about when Harrison had given it to him, when Hartley had offered him a glass, and they had discussed the intricacies of distilling, the magic of sherry casks. He had watched Harrison add water drop by drop, letting the liquid drip off his finger. He had mixed the water into the whisky with his finger, too, licking it clean, tasting for balance. He had done this five times, and every time Hartley’s breath came harder, shorter. Hartley wondered if Cisco drank whisky, if Harrison would do that with him. He doubted it; Cisco looked like the sort of half-child who thought Karkov and Malibu made a good evening.

When the buzzer started ringing, it was a minute before Hartley reacted. It was such a surprising sound, so loud in the otherwise quiet of his apartment. He heaved himself out of the armchair, answered the call. He assumed it was one of his neighbours, drunkenly forgetting the entry code. It wouldn’t be the first time.

‘It’s me.’ The low, honeyed voice of Harrison Wells. Hartley buzzed him up without even thinking about it, without considering that maybe he should stay away, put distance between them. But maybe Harrison came to apologise. When the knock on the door came, Hartley’s hand was already on the handle.

Harrison entered, peeled off his coat and scarf, hung them neatly on the coat rack. Hartley had backed a few steps away, and watched as Harrison turned. They were standing still, but Hartley felt like they were caged animals, circling, waiting for first blood. First blood, of course, was already spilled, now clabbered on Hartley’s palm. Harrison ran a hand through his hair; Harrison took off his glasses; Harrison ran his fingers over his mouth; Harrison’s eyes never left Hartley’s. He could not move.

‘Hartley,’ and Harrison’s voice was calm, kind, intimate. ‘Do you think you have some kind of claim on me, my time, my attention? Do you think you are,’ he breathed, ‘entitled to anything of mine? Anything at all?’

As Hartley shook his head, a small quake of a movement, Harrison moved closer. They were close enough to touch now, Harrison’s left hand trailing down Hartley’s face, coming to a rest below his jaw, softly resting over his throat. Hartley could feel his heart beating, wondered if Harrison felt it against his palm. His blood, pulsing beneath pressing fingertips.

‘Cisco came to my office after you left this afternoon,’ and with every word he seemed to come a little closer, ‘and told me he was worried about you. Told me you were bruising. Thinks you might be hurting.’ His right hand reached out for Hartley’s bandaged hand. Hartley offered it up, mutely, felt Harrison graze over the wounds, the cuts. ‘Says he think someone’s hurting you.’ The pad of his thumb pressed hard on the bandage, but Hartley knew enough to bite down his yelp. ‘Hartley. Is anyone hurting you?’

‘No, no one’s hurting me,’ Hartley promised, and Harrison, gentle and deadly, smiled contentedly.

‘I’m glad to hear that,’ Harrison’s nails squeezed down on Hartley’s palm and he felt the wetness of blood. The fingers wrapped around his throat tighten just so, and Harrison was so close. ‘I wouldn’t want anyone to hurt my golden boy.’

Harrison was breathing Hartley’s air now, so close that their faces almost touched. He had to taste the anticipation, the fear, the thrill in his breath. Harrison was hot against him, a meteor crashing into his orbit. Hartley suddenly saw something new in this man that he had known for years, that he loved for almost as long. He looked the same, but there was something roiling beneath the surface, a violent impatience, a desire for something he couldn’t reach, an anger at the world for its very existence.

‘I couldn’t hurt you, could I? Not me.’ Harrison was nudging them further into the room, leading Hartley by the throat, his other hand unlooping his bandages, revealing the still raw cuts. ‘You wouldn’t ever believe that of me, would you? Not you, Hartley. I’d never hurt you.’ His nails dug into fresh wounds and Hartley gasped. Harrison’s grip on his throat tightened. ‘I only do what you want me to, don’t I? It’s all for you.’ Up against the doorframe of the bedroom now, Harrison pressing against him, a bloodied hand now stroking Hartley’s face, a thumb running over his lips, the taste of iron. ‘You are so beautiful like this.’

Harrison leaned in and kissed him deeply, an animal in heat. Rough, fierce, needing. Withdrawing, he ran his thumb down Hartley’s face again, collected the coalescing blood. His eyes flicked from Hartley’s eyes to lips and back as he licked the red off his thumb. Again, lips on lips, and Hartley could taste the blood on Harrison’s tongue, as surely Harrison could taste the peat, the oaky vanilla. Then teeth bared, teeth sharp. Hartley whimpered into the biting kisses and Harrison redoubled, palm pressed against aesophagus, and Hartley tried to gasp, tried to catch his breath, found nothing. Harrison still kissing, still pushing deep. When the corners of Hartley’s vision blurred, blackened, faded, the hand on his throat let up, allowed air flow, permitted relief.

‘Then why do you have to make this difficult for yourself?’ Harrison whispered in his ear, shifting his body. Hartley could feel his hardness press against him and he wished that he could move, that he do anything more than just breathe. ‘Why are you jealous?’

‘I’m not jealous,’ Hartley whispered.

‘You’re jealous. I could see it on your face in the office. I can see it now.’ He felt Harrison smile against his cheek, he felt pressure on his cuts again, the fresh smear of blood. ‘Why does it bother you, Hartley? The thought of me doing this to someone else.’

‘It doesn’t bother me,’ Hartley insisted, and Harrison’s hand was in his hair now, pulling sharp.

‘Don’t lie to me.’ His voice sharp, his voice furious.

‘I’m not lying, I’m not –’ and Hartley was slammed against the doorframe, dragged towards the bed. Harrison’s fingers around his neck, almost lifting him off his feet, incredible strength in that lithe body. Hartley lifted his hands towards his neck, and was rewarded with a stinging slap. He dropped his hands; he held his hands up, palms exposed. ‘Harrison, sir, please, I’m not lying; I don’t know what you’re talking about, please, I’m not lying, I’m _not_. What do you want from me? What do you want me to say?’

‘I want you to be honest with me,’ the corners of Harrison’s lips twitched, and he sounded calm again, in control, a forest fire kept in check. ‘And I want you to tell me why you’re so jealous. Because I know. You’re not as good at hiding things as you think you are.’ Harrison shoved him onto the bed, Hartley scrambled up as Harrison followed, hands and knees, every inch of movement elegant, graceful, perfect. ‘I’ve seen how you look at me. How you’re always looking at me. How you shiver – yes, yes, like that – when I touch you, and, god, the look on your face. Because you do, don’t you, Hartley? You love me.’

Hartley said nothing, caught between the headboard and Harrison’s body. Hartley could not tear his eyes off Harrison, the way his eyes scoured Hartley’s face, the way his mouth twitched. He moved his hand from bruising throat to a barely-bruised wrist, his grasp light, then pressing, then aching.

‘Don’t you, Hartley?’ A hand on each wrist now, squeezing hard, Harrison’s lips hovering over his face, his jaw, his neck. ‘Say it.’

And still Hartley hesitated, still he opened his mouth but no words came out. The pressure on his wrists was excruciating and he wondered how much more would be needed to snap the bone. It couldn’t be much. Harrison, his face mild, his eyes locked on Hartley’s, pushed his thumb into Hartley’s raw wounds, digging into flesh. The blood must be blossoming and it took Hartley all his willpower not to whine, not to beg for mercy. But this was what he deserved. This was what he wanted. Harrison cocked his eyebrows, still waiting.

‘I love you,’ he admitted, and the pressure released, just a little. ‘I love you,’ he repeated, and Harrison’s hand ran through Hartley’s hair, blood clumping strands together. ‘I love you,’ he said again, and Harrison kissed him.

Harrison’s hands tore at Hartley’s clothes, not so much interested in the act of removing them as wanting them gone, destroyed. He slapped away Hartley’s fingers, raised to unbutton Harrison’s shirt, but allowed the fingers in his hair, trailing down his neck, those fingers infinitely soft compared to Harrison’s roughness, his careful cruelty. The bites travelling down Hartley’s skin, the thumbs hooked in each crook of his body.

‘It could be so easy,’ Harrison told him as he pulled back, divested himself of his own clothes, no longer touching Hartley and every inch of skin now untouched burning up. ‘You don't have to make it so hard for yourself.' Harrison was back in the bed now, straddling Hartley, who could only watch, adore, mewl, as Harrison stroked his hair, his face, ran his fingers down Hartley's body. 'You know you can trust me. I wouldn't do anything to hurt you.' He pulled Hartley's head back, revealing unmarked skin.

'You'd never hurt me,' Hartley agreed as Harrison bit down on his neck, pushed his thumbs into the softness of his thighs, hard enough to leave marks for tomorrow and days to come.

‘Never,’ Harrison promised as his hand slid down Hartley’s chest, grazing the head of his cock. Hartley hissed and Harrison laughed. ‘But you can’t let me down, Hartley,’ he reached for the bedside drawer, slicked his fingers, ‘I don’t want you to disappoint me,’ he spread his legs, ‘and I need you to be good for me.’ Harrison kept his eyes locked on Hartley’s as he pressed his fingers inside, smiling at his barely-contained gasp, at the way he clenched his fists, at how he leaned back against the headboard, eyes closed, breathing hard. ‘Will you be good?’

‘I’ll be good, I’ll be good,’ a frantic whisper, beads of sweat collecting along his hairline. Only this and he was ready to fall apart. How pathetic could you be? How could Harrison make him feel like this? He wanted to push against the fingers, beg for him to fuck him, but he was frozen in place. He clenched his hands in the sheets of his bed, red blood smeared against white cotton, and tried, again, to remember to breathe, tried to look at Harrison. Harrison’s face, so calm and patient, as though he did not know how easily he could tear Hartley apart.

‘Thank you,’ Harrison smiled as he leaned in to kiss him, just once. Hartley shuddered as he traced his free hand up his body, the jutting hip bone, the small dip of his waist, his chest, his neck, his jaw, his face. Light fingers pushed away the stray locks of hair on Hartley’s forehead, run through his hair, traced along his eyebrows, came to rest upon his glasses. ‘Let’s get these off you,’ and Harrison removed the glasses gently, softly, slowly, careful not to drag the temple tips against Hartley’s ears, careful not to smudge the glass. He folded the temples and placed them on the bedside table. Pushed close to him, Hartley inhaled and prayed for this moment would last forever.

Harrison’s face was close to Hartley again, all blue eyes and gleaming teeth and infinite beauty. Without his glasses, the rest of the world was a blur, Harrison the only thing in focus. But that, Hartley admitted, was how he saw the world even with corrected vision. Everything was pale and bleak in comparison to Harrison Wells. His free hand rested on his face, stroking his cheek; the fingers inside him flexed, probed. Harrison’s eyes sparkled at Hartley’s gasp, at his unrestrained moans, at how he was crumbling moment by moment.

‘ _Please_ ,’ he managed, everything hazy except for Harrison’s lupine grin.

Then – Harrison’s hands on his hips, flipping him over. Harrison’s knees, spreading Hartley’s legs with small but firm nudges; one of Harrison’s hands on the small of his back, holding him down; his other hand, splayed across his shoulder blades. Hartley squeezed his eyes shut, the blood in his eyelids a kaleidoscope of red, and felt Harrison push inside: the broach of his head, the force of him as he reached deep, the sheets bunching in Hartley’s fists.

‘This is what you want, isn’t it?’ Harrison’s voice was calm as Hartley whimpered, as he pleaded. ‘You love me; you asked for this.’ His fingers trailed up his neck, for a moment tenderly wrapped in Hartley’s hair, then splayed across his face, pressing him into the mattress. ‘So be quiet. Take this.’ A quick slap, cutting Hartley’s cry short. ‘Be better, Hartley.’

Hartley tried so hard, to keep quiet, to stay still, to not come too soon. Because he wanted this, of course he wanted this. He loved Harrison, and this was what _he_ wanted. He just had to be better, less flawed, less imperfect. If he could just be better, Harrison wouldn’t look at Cisco, wouldn’t touch him, would be as loyal to Hartley as Hartley was to him. So he deserved – when he came, far too soon – Harrison’s hand on his face, his hand on his throat, his disappointed words.

Harrison’s orgasm was a focused shudder, nails digging into skin, heavy breathing that calmed, a beast that folded into the guise of man again. He left the bed without a word. Hartley heard the shower run, and he imagined Harrison soaked to the bone, the water glistening off of his skin. He watched as Harrison came back to the bedroom, hair towelled dry, beads of water trailing down his skin. He got dressed without looking at Hartley, without acknowledging him in any way.

He left without another word. Everything was as it had always been.


	5. Chapter 5

With every day, the work on the particle accelerator advanced. The date for activation was announced at the S.T.A.R. Labs Christmas party: December 11 the following year. _A Saturday was perhaps not the expected choice,_ Harrison admitted, _but won’t it be nice to be done before next Christmas? And the public will be able to see it._ The accelerator staff, greatly grown from the days when the project was only a blackboard of sprawled ideas in Hartley’s hand, cheered and raised their glasses for a toast. After the party, Hartley gave him a bottle of Scotch, the same Christmas gift for the third year in a row. _Boring but practical_ , he admitted. Harrison accepted the gift and clipped a gold tie pin on Hartley’s unfestive tie. _Boring but practical_ , he smiled. He took him home that night, and Hartley woke in an empty bed.

Winter faded into spring, spring into summer. Harrison was away from the Labs many weeks that spring, promoting his autobiography, getting the media outside of the Central City to start writing about the particle accelerator. Hartley was left in charge, managing the myriad projects of the Labs, for all intents and purposes the proprietor. He considered calling his father, asking him if he was proud of his disgrace of a son, if he regretted his disavowal. He considered what Harrison might do once he came back, if he would choke him until he blacked out, if he would kiss him after he swallowed.

His responsibilities were a blessing, a curse. He had to work daily with Cisco, with Caitlin, with Ronnie, their mindless lives and mindless chatter, but it was all worth it for Harrison’s compliments and encouragements. When Hartley did not do well enough, when he did not behave, Harrison would turn lay his arm around Cisco’s shoulder, walk him down a hall while explaining some hare-brained scheme. On his knees, entreating, Hartley would ask for forgiveness and Harrison, legs sprawled, would accept his penance. On Hartley’s work anniversary, they went to the French restaurant, again, as every year. Like the Friday chess, it had become a staple. This time, Hartley imitated his superior and ate with his hands, and in an alley between the restaurant and the Labs, Harrison put Hartley’s fingers in his mouth, licking them clean, telling him how good he was with his hands.

It was a Tuesday in early September when Icarus’ wings began to be molded. Harrison had been away, a conference on the other side of the country, bringing in money and attention to the Labs. They had had breakfast together, and afterwards, in Hartley’s office, Harrison had put his hands on him and pushed Hartley up against the desk. Harrison had teased Hartley for how he emulated him, black jeans, black shirt, no tie. He had shrugged him out of them all the same. Afterwards, Harrison had stayed pushed against his back, just for a few moments longer than usual, his breath hot against Hartley’s neck, his skin pure electricity. Afterwards, Hartley had decided to revisit the particle accelerator plans, to prepare for the impending media circus. That was when he noticed it. The mistake that could kill a city.

When he first saw it, he could not believe what he saw. These plans had been checked. And checked again. And again. By him, by Ronnie, by Cisco, by Harrison. Perhaps he could have made a mistake, perhaps Ronnie, definitely Cisco, but not Harrison. Hartley went down to the S.T.A.R. Labs archives, the darkened basement storage zone. He rifled through folder after folder, compared earlier designs to the blueprint for the construction now almost ready for activation. The error was not in the earliest plans, not in Hartley’s, not in Harrison’s. They were not in Ronnie’s structural plans. The mistake had snuck in two years ago, in a plan that Harrison had signed off on. His neat signature in the bottom right, a pledge to the investors and Central City that this was what they were paying for and this was what they were getting. Hartley’s stomach dropped; Hartley’s knees were weak. He remembered his father’s words, that he would fail. But it was not too late, he told himself. He slammed the elevator buttons, he raced through the facility to the entrance of the accelerator. It was early evening and there was no one there. He had to see it for himself. He had to know the plan was wrong, that the accelerator was intact.

But there it was. A glaring error that had slipped through their radar. A mistake that could turn their promise of clean power for a city to a legacy of a slaughter. But a mistake that was not a mistake, that had to be intentional. A conscious decision. A conscious decision made by Harrison.

When Hartley exited the particle accelerator, Harrison stood waiting. Not the Harrison that had smiled at him this morning, but the beast within his skin, the one whose words were calm and whose soul was cold.

‘Now, what are you doing in my accelerator?’

 _My accelerator_ , he said. Not _our accelerator_. _My accelerator_. And as the beast behind Harrison’s eyes moved, Hartley still saw Harrison, and he knew – as he always had known, but as he never had admitted – that he had always been the beast. As Hartley explained, offered to take the fall, volunteered to be the scapegoat that would be needed, Harrison’s eyes stayed cold. The Latin, the threat, the dismissal. The security guards who led him to the front doors, requested his staff ID, asked him to leave. Made it clear he could never come back.

When Osgood Rathaway made him leave, he had been a lion in Hartley’s eyes, a jealous ruler roaming his territory. But now, Hartley could see he had been a child, mistaking a kitten for danger. Harrison Wells was the lion, Harrison was the danger. Now past his usefulness, Hartley was discarded like dry bones. The god Maahes washed his bloody hands of his slave, and they still ran red.

 

* * *

 

Hartley woke up in the morning and for a moment the world was still in tune. Then he remembered what had happened, and the world shifted out of focus. He looked out of his bedroom window and saw the spires of S.T.A.R. Labs. He couldn’t stay there. Soon, he wouldn’t have the money for it, but even if he did, he couldn’t look at that. By mid-morning he had broken his lease. By mid-afternoon he had found a dingy hovel on the south side, where his could-have-been creation could not be seen. He was talking to the landlady, who demanded rent in cash every two weeks ( _no one stays long_ , she explained and shrugged), when his phone buzzed. One missed call from Ronnie, two. A missed call from Caitlin. He was promising the landlady – cross his heart and hope to die – that he was a trustworthy character and signing the lease when he heard the ding of a text message. Ronnie.

_The doctor said you quit. What happened?_

He was back at his apartment, throwing clothes into suitcases, deliberating what to keep. His blinds were shut, blocking the view of his disgrace. A knock on the door. A sharp-dressed lawyer. His termination contract. Hartley signed it, not even looking at the terms. His future was gone anyway. There was nothing to salvage. Another buzz of his phone.

_You, quit? Really? Wells isn’t talking._

‘Are you moving?’ The lawyer glanced around the mess in the darkened apartment. ‘Will you give us your new address so we can send you your copy of the termination letter?’

Hartley shook his head, insisted they send it to this address, that they would pass it on. Harrison couldn’t know where he’d gone. Harrison couldn’t find him. Harrison was done with him, so he was done with Harrison. (He almost laughed at that.) The lawyer bid him a nice afternoon – a nice life – and Hartley spent the evening shouting at moving companies, who refused to work at such short notice, begging the leasing office staff to forward his mail, drinking the last of his gifted whisky, throwing the empty bottle against the wall. Even without him there, the bed was full of Harrison Wells. He looked at his phone, at Harrison’s name glowing on the screen, but he did not dial. He ignored Ronnie’s messages. ( _What happened? Are you okay? How can we finish this without you?_ ) He slept, and woke unrested.

The movers came around the next day, transporting the fragments of his old new life, bringing it up the creaking stairs, displacing it into the life he was left to. Hartley didn’t look at his phone when it buzzed now, he smoked his cigarettes out the window and looked at the view from his window. ( _What did you do? What did he do?_ ) This was a part of Central City he had never known, an area his father said was a den of debauchery. He wondered if his father would be happy to learn that he failed. If he was happy to be right, again. ( _Did you fight? Please, Hartley, just respond. You’re an ass but you’re smart. Don’t abandon us now._ ) He thought about his father and he thought about Harrison and he wondered if they were the same. He wondered if Harrison would make peace with Osgood Rathaway, if they would laugh at Hartley and his pathetic perversions.

Hartley spent the days smoking, sleeping, not eating. As his bruises came down, ameliorating from blue to green to brown to nothing, the dull ache in his body became harder to ignore. The smoking didn’t help, the sleeping didn’t help. He went out and came back unsatisfied, wiping his mouth and washing his hand. He knew he was running on empty, that there should be more to his days than waking, showering, smoking, sleeping and the S.T.A.R. Labs news alert. But he opened his eyes in the morning and saw nothing at all.

_Jesus Christ, man. Where ARE you?_

_Whatever, I’m done. Text me back when you’ve grown up and stopped killing yourself._

 

* * *

 

December 11st, 2013. The day the future began. The day they particle accelerator was turned on. The day Hartley’s hands were bloodied by inaction. He wanted to tell someone, he did. He wanted to let everyone know about the fault, about the risks, about how Harrison was playing a high risk game of chance with the lives of Central City. He had several times punched in the number to the news hot line, but was never able to go through with the call. He had several times typed out a message to Ronnie, telling him exactly where the fault was, exactly what would happen, but he was never able to press send. He thought about Harrison’s threat. He thought about all the true but unsubstantiated claims he could feed to the media. He thought about Harrison’s hands, his words, the beast inside his skin. He thought about how Harrison held the world in his palm like a plaything. He thought about Harrison and could do nothing.

Hartley went back to Star Labs for the first time to see Harrison’s speech, to see how he would sell the end of the world. But Harrison smiled and Hartley’s heart clenched, and for a moment that smile was for Hartley alone. Hartley’s head spun and he imagined himself on that stage, part of the glory, part of the praise. If only he hadn’t let Harrison down. He left without anyone seeing him, but he saw plenty of people. Investors, smiling. Men and women of note. Scientists he had once known. Martin Stein, for some reason. He pushed through the crowds, the protesters. He made it home and he curled up in bed. He fell into an uneasy sleep and woke up drowning in an ocean of noise.

Hartley fell out of bed, hard onto the floor. His hands to his ears, against the piercing, agonizing screeches in his ears, but it made no difference. The sound was in his head, a constant cacophonous roar. He tried to move and felt the nausea rise; he retched and heard how the sound multiplied in his ears, his desperate whimpers as loud as thunder. He managed – somehow – to roll on his back, to press his palms against the floor, to try to ground himself. The noise, the clamour, the buzz, and Hartley was bowled over, unable to move, unable to breathe, hardly aware of where he was.

Time was measured in the moments of lucidity, the moments where he could breathe without the air exploding around him, the moments when he could move without hearing the sounds of his body like fireworks. He found his phone, he found his headphones, and music, blasted louder than his phone recommended, helped, blocked out the sounds of his mind a little, at least. He stared at the date and tried to recall why it was significant. He remembered and he saw the news alerts from S.T.A.R. Labs.

_Accelerator fails. 17 suspected dead, many injured or missing._

Hartley thought of the myth of the merciful God, and felt a sick satisfaction that he had been given his just deserts. He wondered if Harrison was one of the dead. He prayed, despite himself.

 

* * *

 

The explosion had not killed Harrison Wells. Harrison Wells was alive and, Hartley realised after days of ringing screams, he was the reason Hartley was suffering. He didn’t know how it had happened, he couldn’t explain it, but the particle accelerator had done this. This knowledge, that Harrison had not only senselessly discarded him, but had senselessly destroyed one of his senses, help him get off his floor, helped him gather himself. Despite Harrison, he could do this. He could do this alone. He could make it through.

It took him weeks, months. Some days, he could work well, other days he could not move for vertigo, for the screeching in his ears. Slowly, he found a momentum. A white noise machine helped, cut down his reliance on music, helped him focus. He got used to the dizzy spells and the sudden nausea, developed ways to ground himself. He spent a lot of time in bed, little of it sleeping. He dozed rather than slept, catching snatches of sleep before he was awoken by a shift of the roar, by nothing but the same screaming that was in his ears when he fell asleep.

He wondered if Harrison suffered like this, if Harrison slept at night. If Harrison traded back-alley deals for pills, for drugs, for anything to make the pain more bearable. He thought about what his father would think about this. He thought about calling his father, admitting: _I am broken and it is Harrison Wells’ fault. A man broke me and I failed. Are you happy to be right? Will you take me back?_ He laughed at this thought, the ridiculous notion that his father could forgive him his faults, and the movement, the shifting of his jaw that sounded like the cracking of bones, was enough to lay him flat, to leave him curled in on himself. No, his father would not forgive him and he did not need his forgiveness.

 _At least Harrison is in agony,_ he told himself. _At least Harrison is also in pain._ But this was a crux, because he did not _know_ that Harrison was suffering. He knew he was not dead. The news stations would have blared the news, announced his death like the lucky numbers of the day. The thought of Harrison as he had been was like hot white needles stuck into his ears; the thought that he might still be well, that he had stepped out of his conducted cataclysm without a scratch was another kind of screaming, another thing to keep him awake.

Of all his scientific childhood interests – bug collecting, dinosaur bones, optometry, the refraction of light – Hartley had never developed an interest in otology. Ears and hearing was something he had always taken for granted, something he never had to think about. Now it was all he could think about, and he quickly realised that whatever had gone wrong with him, it was nothing a traditional ear doctor would know how to treat. He began with the flaw of the particle accelerator, moved to the theoretical. He worked from memory, without any of his notes, dependent on library databases and open source articles. It was slow going, the din bleeding into every inch of himself, making him lose his place in the readings, making him lose days of research to the blinding white noise.

The first prototype was a flawed success. The second, better. The third, Hartley could wear with little discomfort and with the screams reduced to sporadic buzzing. The difference, at first, was startling, the sudden quiet in his mind nauseating. He had to learn how to navigate life without the screeching, leery to fall asleep at night, anxious about waking up to clamour in his ears again. He could eat again, chew foods without hearing the biting of his teeth as the clash of thunder.

And still he did not know what had happened to Harrison, what had happened at S.T.A.R. Labs. Their official website gave little information – of course it didn’t, with such a well-publicized embarrassment – but the local newspaper told him more. Pictures of Harrison Wells, in a wheelchair. The article didn’t say why. There weren’t any other articles explaining why. Nothing in his medical file from the Central City Hospital. It had taken Hartley days to crack that, to get into their systems, and it left him with nothing. He threw his coffee mug against the wall, and the sound it make on breaking was like the silenced crackling in his mind. He closed his eyes, buried his head in his hands, tried to think. Caitlin. Caitlin must have treated him. She must be the one who put him in the chair. If that was the case, all the records would be at S.T.A.R. Labs, and he knew that even though it was labelled a hazardous location, derelict and shunned by polite society, he would not be able to get through their firewalls. Cisco was five kinds of stupid, but he did know computers.

Hartley chewed his lip, wondered where else he could find out what he needed. Then he remembered an article from late December, one which declared S.T.A.R. Labs a potential crime site, one which explained that all S.T.A.R. Labs records had been taken as part of the police investigation. The case had been dropped, but the evidence should still be there. An accident, the Norris Commission report had declared. The police had agreed. Hartley wondered what idiots worked at the Central City Police Department. He asked himself the same question again when he had reached into their secure connection and started downloading the S.T.A.R. Labs files. After a day of waiting, the files were securely on the hard drive. Hartley realised that it was unlikely there would be much information about Harrison’s condition after the accelerator breakdown, if these files had been taken from the Labs right after the meltdown. But it was worth a try. He leafed through the personnel file.

There were things he had known and forgotten: where Harrison had gone to college; what he had written his theses on; the choices that led him to S.T.A.R. Labs. There were things he hadn’t known: his frankly ridiculous middle name; his birthday, barely a week after Hartley’s own birthday; that he had not listed a next of kin. He browsed the personnel file a little longer, but found nothing that made a difference. On a whim, he pulled up his own personnel file. God, how he hated that photo. _STATUS: Terminated_. Red letters, printed below his name. He clicked through the file, his hiring date, a list of the trips he had taken for the company, and a collection of press clippings. He read through one of the articles, scoffing at his blue-eyed naïveté, at how young he had been. He opened one of the oldest article and paused.

It was a half-spread, much of it covered by a photograph. Harrison, looking at the camera, smiling his billion dollar smile. Hartley, his eyes on Harrison, his mouth slightly ajar, one hand splayed across the papers on the table, fingers spread towards Harrison. He remembered that day. It was the day after he had first made Harrison come. Before the interview, Harrison had nestled him in his lap, had kissed him without hurry. Hartley had felt like nothing in the world had mattered other than that. Harrison had seen him; Harrison had wanted him.

Harrison had discarded him.

Hartley slammed his laptop shut and crawled into bed.

 

* * *

 

‘Have you heard about the Streak?’ Diana, the lone purveyor of organic goods in Hartley’s neighbourhood, leaned close and whispered conspiratorially as she weighed his tomatoes.

‘The Streak? Is that a TV show?’

‘No, no, it’s a man, it’s a _hero_!’ Diana moved on to his potatoes, his bell peppers, punching in the prices on a calculator as she kept chattering. ‘He saves people from burning buildings, he catches criminals in the acts. He moves faster than light itself. There’s a blog. You should look at it. There’s finally something to be proud of in Central City.’

‘I will look at it,’ Hartley promised as he paid for his vegetables.

He had said it more to placate her than genuine curiosity, but as he wandered home, eating an apple, he grew curious. Faster than light itself? Surely that was not possible? An internet search brought him to the blog she had mentioned. It was poorly written, but the facts were there. Eyewitness reports, collated sources. No pictures, apart from photos of blurs of red. Hartley found himself drawn to this idea of a superhuman, someone more than man, who could travel faster than light, faster than sound, and who did something with it. Who made a difference.

Hartley found a map of Central City at a local charity shop, slightly out of date but cheap as dirt, and pinned it on his apartment wall. He began pushing pins in locations the red blurs had been spotted, where this mystery man had saved people, kittens, trays of cookies, adding arrows when there were reports of him speeding away. When he was satisfied with the number of data points, he created an algorithm. The computer chewed through the material, ran the calculations, spat out an answer. He looked at the geographical notation and felt the piercing ringing in his ears for the first time in weeks.

S.T.A.R. Labs.

Harrison had replaced him. Harrison had found some kid, some _boy_ , to run and play hero for him. This man, this _Flash_ , must have been affected by the accelerator blast, just like Hartley, but where Hartley was given constant agony and pain, he was given the speed of light and the body of a god. No wonder  Harrison had held him close to his chest, held him away from public view. The things that Harrison truly cared about, Hartley had learned, were the ones he did not show to the world. He should have known, when Harrison proudly displayed him to the world, that he was a temporary plaything, something to be tossed away when the glaze rubbed off. The Flash, he was valuable, he was precious, he was let out of his pen in snatches, welcomed home with open arms, patched up and kissed better.

Did Harrison fuck him? Hartley hated that his mind, even when faced with scientific hypotheticals made real, turned to Harrison’s body, Harrison’s hands. Harrison’s hands on someone else.

He made his decision in an instant. Harrison Wells had brought pain to him, to Central City, and death was too good for him. He had to suffer. The Flash brought him joy. The Flash had to die.


	6. Chapter 6

The idea of the gauntlets came from a night of smoking, drinking, thinking of ways Hartley could become a killer. Harrison’s pet’s speed was a problem, and so was Hartley’s ears constantly screeching. If he was to commit an act bad enough to be sent to the gallows, he wanted it to work. He wanted it to be worth it. A knife, a bullet, it did not seem fitting. Any kind of traditional weapon felt too violent, too crude. Yes, he would kill Flash, but he was not a murderer. It was justice. He thought of sound waves, of how glass shattered if it vibrated at a high enough frequency. He thought about how everything vibrated, that there every object could be destroyed if targeted at the right frequency. He thought about the Flash, torn apart by his own sonic frequency. It only seemed fair. It seemed – yes – poetic. The Flash was born through something Hartley had built. He would die by something else Hartley would create.

There were moments while he worked on the gauntlets when he would pause, sit back, stare at nothing. He would feel doubt pressing in on him, a different kind of vertigo than the one he had gotten used to. Maybe he was making a mistake. Maybe this wasn’t justice. One time, he found himself calling his father. His father’s valet, the man who had taught Hartley how to tie his shoelaces, who had told him not to cry when his father took his favourite plush toy away, picked up.

‘Can I speak to my father?’ Hartley asked.

‘Hartley?’ The voice was surprised.

‘Does he have any other sons I should know about?’

A pause.

‘I’m sorry, Hartley.’ Another pause. ‘He doesn’t have a son.’

The line went dead. Hartley kicked the wall and went back to work.

This was the right thing to do. Hartley knew this was the right thing to do. He tried to ignore the doubts, the creeping guilt. He tried to keep himself focused, remind himself why he was doing this. He figured out that Cisco was still at S.T.A.R. Labs. That was a reason to destroy Harrison. He had seen Ronnie in the list of missing, presumed dead. That was a reason to destroy Harrison. (He had seen the video from outside S.T.A.R. Labs, the one with Martin Stein, the one with Ronnie’s face. That was a reason to destroy Harrison.) He thought about the Flash, the chosen one with a working body and droves of admiring plebeians. That was a reason to destroy Harrison. One night, his fears, his worries, his apprehension got bad enough that he ripped out one of his hearing aids to remind himself of the pain, of what Harrison had done to him. He fell to the ground, hands over his ears, tears in his eyes, cursing Harrison, cursing himself, cursing his foolish doubts. This pain was a reason to destroy Harrison.

Everything came back to Harrison, and Hartley hated him. He hated himself. He hated the Flash and his bravado, his swagger, his vigor. When the Flash was dead, when Harrison suffered, Hartley would be fine, Hartley would be free.

 

* * *

 

Hartley had never been much of a tree-climber. His father had not thought it was proper, and his nannies had kept him away from any tree that had looked rife for climbing. But awkwardly, slowly, he had made it up the Spanish oak in Harrison’s backyard. High enough to be covered by the leaves, low enough that he could make a quick escape. His limbs were getting sore, his fingers were getting cold, and he was running out of patience when the light came on in the hall. Harrison Wells was standing in his entryway, pouring a glass of whisky. Hartley cocked his head, suddenly off-balance. Standing. On his feet. Harrison was stretching his neck, running a hand through his hair. Hartley was distracted by the movement, by the expanse of pale skin. He shook his head, pulled out his phone. He had hacked into the surround system before Harrison got home, and could hear the Puccini drifting through the air. He phoned Harrison’s number and was pleased when he saw him pull his phone out. He hadn’t been sure if Harrison still had the same number, and the phone call was not necessary. But he wanted to hear his voice. He wanted Harrison to listen to him.

‘We both know what you did.’

The opera stopped. Harrison looked up, looked around, and Hartley bit his lip at the fear on his face. Harrison was gone, for a second, and returned with a gun. He approached the middle of the living room, cautious, gun up. Hartley thought about those times he had been allowed to enter this house, the secret moments that were never referred to, communicated only in everyday touches, in the way their eyes met during meetings. Moments that stayed with Hartley, that had meant so much to him. Moments that had meant nothing to Harrison.

‘It’s time to pay the piper.’

This was only the first step, a book move, but there a deep dark thrill that ran through Hartley’s body as the glass shattered, as it fell towards Harrison  – and he was gone, posited at the back of the room. The glass lay scattered like hail and Harrison was untouched. Another burst, another set of glass sheets breaking. Harrison was on the ground now, hands over his head, wary of another attack, not moving. The temptation to go to him, to see him on the ground, to do unto him what he had done to Hartley, was strong but he restrained himself. Not now. Not yet. He climbed down the tree, disappeared into the night. Now he only had to wait.

 

* * *

 

The next move had to wait until night had passed, until Harrison Wells had a chance to talk to his little pets. Hartley wondered if Harrison would tell them who was doing this, or if he was still a dirty little secret. He thought about that gun, too, if Harrison would have turned it on him. If Harrison would have shot him. No, no, he had a hard time imagining that. The gun had been a precaution, a sensible reaction when threatened by a jilted lover. Or did Harrison even think of him as his lover? He bit his cheek, tried to push the thought out of his head. He waited until early afternoon, he flexed his fingers, he waited. If his assumptions were right, if everyone behaved the way they should, he would meet the key to his revenge very soon. No, not revenge. Justice. It was late morning when he made his way to Rathaway Industries.

It was strange to stand in front of his could-have-been empire, his family’s legacy. If he hadn’t been cast out, if he hadn’t been a queer disgrace, he might have been sitting in that building, attending some top-floor meeting with fancy coffees and terrible presentations. He thought about the decisions that had steered him off that path. He wondered if he would have been happier as his father’s lapdog, rather than Harrison’s. He wondered if he would still have his hearing. He wondered if he would have been as disposable. He wondered if the particle accelerator would have existed.

He shook himself, pulled on the gauntlets, and aimed. He worked calmly, methodically. He knew which floors were mostly empty, focused his attention on those. He wasn’t looking to hurt innocent people. _He_ wasn’t a monster. He heard the police cars approach; he had to slow them down. He had to stay free long enough for the Flash to arrive. Just another few second, and there he was. Red and yellow lightning, coming together to a human shape. He had seen the photographs of him, and he had studied them for hours, but seeing him in person, seeing him up close, was different. The Flash pushed him to the ground, sent him sprawling. He was all limbs, legs and leather. Hartley felt a twinge of shame that he would have to kill something so beautiful.

And the Flash knew his name. _It’s over, Rathaway._ The way he said it, the snarl in his voice, the anger, ran shivers down Hartley’s spine. He smiled at this, and he smiled as he heard the radio waves in the suit. Harrison was listening. A new idea, an enticing adaptation of the plan, started to form in his mind. Hartley savoured the way the Flash’s eyes lit up in worry, anger, when he rattled the names: _Caitlin Snow, Cisco Ramon, Harrison Wells_. He asked himself who the man inside the costume as he blasted him through the glass of the Rathaway obelisk – he had always hated that piece. There was a moment, less than a split second, when he was worried Flash wouldn’t get up, that he had done too much too soon. But, no. He was fine. He was up, zooming towards him.

The problem with wanting to be caught is that is has to be made believable. He could have just walked up to S.T.A.R. Labs and demanded to see Harrison Wells. But he would be unlikely to be allowed in, and if they had thought he was only a human threat, he might have ended up in a police holding cell. That was not where he needed to be. He knew that the enhanced people the Flash had defeated had all disappeared, and he was the only common denominator. There must be something at S.TA.R. Labs where they were kept, he reasoned. That was where he needed to be taken. At the Labs, at the place of his disgrace, he would find what he needed. The Flash would bring him there. It seemed fitting that the Flash would bring about his own death this way.

He needed to be a big enough threat to be taken care of, but he wanted to keep the innocent out of the way. He didn’t want to hurt any bystanders. He wasn’t like Harrison. He wasn’t a monster.

In seconds, the masked hero of Central City had his hand bunched in the fabric of his coat, had ripped the gauntlets off. Hartley wondered what he looked like without the mask, if those eyes that looked golden were actually brown or blue, if the sharp curves of his mouth looked gentler in context, if he was handsome. If Harrison thought he was handsome.

‘Looks like you’re not as smart as everyone says.’ Hartley pursed his lips to hide his smile at this. _Everyone._

‘Smart enough to figure out who Harrison Wells really is. You see, I know his secret.’

The Flash’s eyes lit up in anger, confusion, frustration, and – worry? Hartley felt cold steel press down upon his wrists, heard the click of the handcuffs’ locking mechanism. Then he felt himself ripped away, thrust through space. Despite his hearing aids, he felt the spin of vertigo, a roar of noise. He focused, pushed through the nausea, had mostly recovered by the time they slowed, by the time he was inside S.T.A.R. Labs. He had expected to feel something at coming back there, some kind of physical pain to remind him of what had happened within these walls. But he felt nothing at all.

Seeing Cisco and Caitlin did not do much either. Cisco’s frustration at the fact he had named himself and not left the job to Cisco was vaguely amusing, but Caitlin barely reacted to his cruelty. They seemed to have become less vivid in his absence, unfettered boats drifting in the breeze. Had Harrison faded too? Cisco and the Flash led him away. As he had expected, there was a prison. He had not expected it to be within the antiproton cavities, which truly was very clever. He resented that it had been Cisco’s idea. He looked at Cisco and he looked at Caitlin and he wondered if they would ever realise who Harrison was. What Harrison was. That the monster that had folded itself into the limbs of Harrison Wells would need to feed again, and that they were next. He almost wanted to help them. But maybe the Flash’s death would save them. Maybe they would thank him once it was over. For now, he could see the hatred in their eyes, their wary faces. Neither of them had reacted when he told them what the accelerator explosion had done to him. Neither of them cared. Neither of them would believe that what he was doing was an act of good.

Then he heard the sound of rubber on steel, the whirring of wheels turning on the concrete.

‘Enough, Hartley.’ Harrison Wells, in the flesh, sitting in that chair he did not need, bringing his lapdog to heel. Hartley was flooded, floored, unable to look at Harrison. Caitlin and Cisco might be sepia copies, but Harrison was in technicolor, vibrant and vivacious. He looked just like he had when he had taken him in his arms, when he had thrown him away. All at once, Hartley hurt, a deep and furious grief at his betrayal, at his dishonesty, at his utter disregard for Hartley. _No no no_ , he reminded himself. _Anger, not sadness_. _Fury, not grief_. Harrison asked Caitlin and Cisco to leave, and they were alone. Hartley could hear Harrison’s heart, picking up a little, and he dared meet his eye. He wondered if Harrison had missed him.

Hartley had called himself Pied Piper, but it was really a title more appropriate for Harrison. Harrison played his flute, used his alluring words, and the children came swarming. Hartley was a rat, long since drowned.

‘How did you know we were working with the Flash?’ Harrison spoke calmly, softly, like an experienced teacher with his unruly pupil. The villain in stories always explains. This was the role Hartley had cut out for himself, so he explained what he had done, gave Harrison the answers he wanted. For now he would play the role of the villain, before he could measure out the punishment that Harrison deserved. He tried to think of the haughty arrogance of every movie villain and tried to have the same tone, tried to carry himself in the same way. Talking carelessly. He wanted Harrison gone, he wanted to be alone so he could move on to the next stage. He didn’t want Harrison to look at him the way he was, fondly, gently, impressed.

‘You are brilliant,’ a smile spread across Harrison’s face and Hartley bit his cheek, dug his nails into his arms. Hartley didn’t want this. He didn’t want his kind words, his encouragements and appreciation. Once that had been all he wanted and now the words rang hollow, an insult, not a compliment. Harrison paused and spoke again. ‘And any anguish you have been through because of me was never my intent.’

He emphasised the last three words, pushed them toward to Hartley like splinters under fingernails. He hated this. He hated this. Harrison’s words like browned butter, rich and caramelised, so easy to believe. There was a part of Hartley that wanted to break, wanted to apologise for all the ways he had let Harrison down. Harrison had never meant to hurt him; all his hurt was because of his own weaknesses, his own flaws. But no, no. This wasn’t true, and Harrison was careless, careless with his lying and careless with human life. Harrison had never cared and all the anguish Hartley suffered through had been carefully planned. There was intent in his anguish. Harrison was a liar and he needed to suffer.

‘Not bad,’ he replied, and he heard how close his voice was to breaking, how another slight push of Harrison’s would have him in tears. He dug his fingers deeper into the fabric of his jacket. ‘As far as heartfelt apologies go.’ Hartley had wanted to believe Harrison’s words, to give up, to give in. But this was another game of Harrison’s, a false play to distract Hartley and to show those still loyal to him that he was good, that he was penitent, that he did not abandon and grow bored of his toys. ‘Except that wasn’t for my benefit. That was for you, Flash.’

The Flash. Hartley wished the Flash was there, that he would remove his cowl and show his face. Hartley wanted to speak face to face to the man he would kill, but fate would not provide. So he turned to the camera, laced his words with poison, reminded himself of all the bad things Harrison had done, tried to keep his voice steady. No, he wasn’t sad; no, he didn’t want Harrison to take him back. He wanted Harrison to suffer. He hoped this conversation would be the salt in Harrison’s wounds once he was done, once the Flash was dead. He hoped his taunts would plant seeds of doubt in him, make him careless, bring him easily to the place of his execution.

Hartley turned back to look at Harrison as he told the Flash about what Harrison had done – well, one of many things Harrison had done. Harrison’s face was set, no remorse, no regret. He turned to leave, and Hartley heard the grindings of the gears and the wheezing of the wheels of the chair that Harrison did not need.

‘Oh, I almost forgot. I told your pet I know your deep, dark secret, Harrison. Have fun letting him in on that one.’

Hartley had not really expected him to bite, to give him the reaction he so desperately wanted. He had wanted Harrison to turn, to ask what secret that might be. Oh, the secrets Hartley knew. But Harrison only stopped for a second, and moved away. It was better like that. Hartley needed him gone to finish this. He did not want an audience for his escape.

Hartley waited several hours before he moved. He got used to the whirring of the machinery of S.T.A.R. Labs, the way the air vibrated. He couldn’t hear through the bulkhead door, but he doubted anyone was there. He hoped they had better things to do than skulk around their prisoners’ den. He got up from the corner, stretched his fingers, took a deep breath. He had practised this. He could do this. As long as the first wave of screaming didn’t knock him out, he could manage ninety minutes before it overwhelmed him. That should give him plenty of time to retrieve his gloves, find the molecular data on the Flash, and get out without being caught. The Flash was the only potential hitch in this plan, but despite his speed, he couldn’t be everywhere and if Hartley was correct, he only have to hurt someone to keep the Flash busy long enough to let him leave.

He pressed his right hand over his ear, keeping his head still as he tore the hearing aid out with his left hand. He felt the blood on his fingers and a deluge of screaming agony washed over him. The nausea rose in his throat, the vertigo brought him up against the wall. _Breathe_ , he reminded himself, and he looked at the bomb. His plan was working. This was going well. He only needed to keep himself in control and he would get out of here. He only needed to stay lucid for a little while, then he could kill the Flash. Then Harrison would get what he deserved. He only needed to focus.

Yet the roaring in his ears made him weak, and he trembled as he placed the bomb on the glass, as he kneeled against the wall. Hartley felt glass crash against his boots, turned and left the cell. He paused outside the bulkhead, tried to calm his breathing, tried to prepare himself for the explosive barrage in both ears. He heard running footsteps, far away but closing fast. No time to lose. He exhaled, pulled at the hearing aid in his other ear. Within the roar of his own mind, he could barely hear his own scream, and he swallowed bile. But he was still conscious. He could do this. He heard the sound of feet moving, and attached the bomb to the metal. The doors blew open as he crouched down.

Cisco lay among the debris, bloodied but breathing. Good. This would distract the Flash if he arrived before Hartley had left. He wiped his hands on his coat, red on black, and moved towards the Cortex, a hand on the wall, helping him stay upright when the vertigo hit hard. If the Flash had been here, he would have apprehended him already, so that was one less person to deal with. So there was Caitlin, and there was Harrison Wells. He hoped against hope that Harrison had left for the night. Maybe Caitlin had, too. But no, no, she was there, hunkered over the main desk, shouting for Cisco. She fell with one blow, heavy on the floor. He retrieved the gauntlets, pulled out the flash drive hidden in the seams. Now the clock was ticking. The files had to be transferred before Caitlin woke up. The computer whirred and the noise cut into his ears. He winced and tried to focus his breathing. Just a little more. What would he do if Caitlin woke up? Would he kick her? Would that knock her out again? He didn’t want to cause any permanent harm, and his boots were heavy. The finished beeping of the computer drew him back to the present. No need for kicking. He had done enough to Caitlin.

Hartley was walking to the exit, almost there, almost out, when he heard, through the piercing agony in his mind, someone talking, frantic, worried. Harrison. Voice gravelled, honeyed, but so at odds with the way he usually talked. There was concern in his voice. Hartley knew he should just leave, that this was a selfish detour where he could not guarantee the outcome. This had not been part of the plan, and he should go. He only had so much time before the pain got too much. Despite everything his common sense was telling him, he turned back towards the noise.

Harrison was on the floor, cell phone in one hand, half-propped up on his elbow. He was shaking with exertion. If he could walk, why was he on the ground? Where was his wheelchair? What was Hartley missing? He pushed the confusion aside and savoured the moment. Harrison, helpless, at his feet. He crouched in front of him and he looked up, fear in his eyes. Hartley could kill him. Hartley could do whatever he wanted to him. Hartley could do all the things that Harrison had done to him. And it would still not be punishment enough.

‘Tell me, Harrison. Am I still your guy?’

Harrison said nothing, his eyes still wide. He pulled back as though he expected a blow, as though he expected to be hit. He deserved it. He deserved worse still. And worse was to come. Hartley smiled at Harrison, a smile of teeth and malice, and left him in the dirt.

 

* * *

 

Hartley made it back to his small apartment, fumbled with the spare hearing aids he had prepared. The silence was blissful and he slept through the night, waking up in late morning. His news alert let him know about the press conference Harrison Wells was about to hold. He let the live feed play in the background as he showered, adjusted his hearing aids, prepared for the final showdown. He found it hard to work with Harrison’s voice washing over him, the calm way he acknowledged that he had decided to turn the particle accelerator on even though he knew it might fail. A colleague, a _friend_ had warned him. Hartley stared at the video feed, at Harrison’s tight face, his false regret. Then he mentioned a new friend, who had made him see the errors of his ways. Harrison was lying. Harrison didn’t care about human life. Hartley turned back to his work, disgusted.

He looked at the data on his screen, which would give him everything he needed. He looked at his gauntlets, glowing green in the dimness.

This was the only way.

 

* * *

 

Hartley Rathaway stood at Cleveland Dam and waited for the execution bells. Everything was in place, and he knew that the sacrifice would come. He knew that Harrison Wells could not protect his new pet here. And it was easy, _ridiculously_ easy, getting the Flash where he wanted him. The burst of red lightning as he approached, the way he saved the civilians in danger. Harrison had created something unequivocally good, and he had to be destroyed. It impressed Hartley – it depressed Hartley – that Harrison could love someone so stupid, who would fall the same trick twice.

But maybe Harrison didn’t love him. Maybe he wouldn’t even miss him. Maybe he was just the new Hartley, the new disposable toy. Maybe this was for nothing. But the sight of the Flash, torn apart from the inside out, blood dripping from his mouth, made shivers of delight run up Hartley’s back. He was winning, not as someone else’s lapdog, not beholden to his father, or to Harrison, or anyone else. He had done this on his own.

How would Harrison react? Would he finally be proud of Hartley? Would he cradle the Flash’s face in his hands? His fingers bloody as he would try to breathe life into the broken body. Hartley knew about the Flash’s regenerative powers. Hartley had adjusted the strength accordingly. A few more minutes. He remembered his own blood on Harrison’s hands. He thought about his father. Would he find out? Would he care? Perhaps Wells would tell the police who he was. Perhaps his father would be ruined. He circled the Flash, convulsing and blinking blood from his eyes. He waited for him to stop moving, to finally be dead. Soon, soon, soon, he’d be free. A minute more, two. He had a ticket for an evening train, paid in cash. He was ready to disappear, to be free of Harrison Wells. If only the Flash would die.

Then there was a shift in the air, a deviation of sound. He looked up, searched the surroundings. The cars. The cars were emitting a rumbling buzz and he could see the Flash stop moving for a second – but not dead, still alive, his hands grappling in the sudden stillness – and his gauntlets, his precious gauntlets, sparking, flickering with electricity, noisy with the new frequency. No no no no no. They were hot in his hands, too hot, unsafe, but there must be a way to fix this, a way to salvage this, but the pitch rose, screaming in his ears, and the gauntlets crackled and exploded. Blood, blood, so much blood and the pain, the _pain_. He fell to the ground, fading fast, unable to hold on.

What he knew was this: he had failed.

 

* * *

 

When Icarus fell, his wax wings melted beneath the hot sun, and no one saw him fall. His father shouted for him, saw the scattered feathers on the sea, and cried. Despite his pride, he was loved and remembered. No father cried for Hartley as his skin of hands was torn off, as he passed out from the pain and woke up in a padded cell. Cisco, watching him, taunting him. He reacted, but not enough, when Hartley told him about Ronnie, told him that he would let him out soon. Cisco left with a snort. He would come back, but Hartley did not know when.

Time passed slowly in the cell. Minutes felt like hours, hours felt like days. He peeled off the bandages on one of his hands, looked at his half-healed palm. The lines on his hand were broken up by still raw wounds. He had never believed in hand reading, but wondered what they would say now. Shattered heart line, shattered head line, shattered life line. A disgraceful past and no future. He sighed and days passed, each one bleaker and greyer than the next. Cisco did not return.

It was an evening – or, at least, Hartley thought it was evening – a week, perhaps, from when he first woke up in the cell, when Harrison Wells came to see his prisoner.

‘Why are you in that chair?’ Hartley didn’t bother getting up. He sat in a corner of the cell, looking at the man who ruined him. Harrison steepled his fingers and ignored the question.

‘How are you holding up?’

‘Locked in a four by four cell and taken for walksies once a day by Caitlin Snow? Just dandy, thanks.’

Harrison huffed, unimpressed. He shifted in the chair, stretched his legs. He did not bother pretending. Hartley cocked his head, studying him. Why was he pretending in the first place? What was he hoping to gain? If it was sympathy from the public, that failed. Harrison Wells was a pariah, with good reason. Was it for the Flash? But, no, he had been in that wheelchair for the better part of a year when the Flash showed up. Could he truly have known what would happen in the accelerator blast? Was the chair a way of feigning innocence, covering his tracks? Hartley frowned. That was impossible.

‘You’re acting as though you don’t deserve to be locked up,’ Harrison said, flatly. ‘You tried to kill someone. If it hadn’t been for the Flash,’ and Hartley hated how he said the name, with a force and a fondness that made him want to claw his eyes out, ‘oh, dozens could have died.’

‘Like in the particle accelerator explosion, you mean?’

‘Hartley, don’t be childish. _You_ are a criminal. I just made a mistake.’ Harrison met his eye then, and he looked so earnest. He looked like he was telling the truth. Hartley wanted to believe him. He knew he was lying. And yet. Harrison looked the same as he had when Hartley had first gotten to know him, when they had first started working together. He looked just like he had when Hartley had loved him. ‘I’ve never plotted to take a life.’

‘You’re doing a pretty good job with this DIY Guantanamo Bay. How many of us criminals are you keeping here?’

‘That’s none of your concern.’

‘How long are you going to keep me here?’

‘The police don’t know how to deal with metahumans. We will keep you here until they do.’

‘ _Meta_ humans? I’m not even human to you anymore?’ Hartley heard his tone, how the spite could not cover the underlying hurt.

‘Why did you try to kill the Flash?’ Harrison’s voice was calm, but he could hear the roaring anger in the space between the words, in the focus of his speech. He had rattled him, he realised, but it was a cold comfort. The Flash lived.

He thought of his father, of his words, years ago, how he had told him he would fail. He thought of what Harrison had said, how he had placed a hand on his shoulders and told him he could not fail. That he was important, that he was necessary. Then, the Judas kiss, the betrayal, the explosion, his hearing. His revenge – yes, it was revenge. But it was just. And he had failed. Just like his father had said he would.

‘Does it matter?’

‘If it was me you wanted to hurt, why did you not finish it that first night? Or when you escaped? You had me at your mercy. Twice.’ Harrison cocked his head, steepled his fingers. ‘You could have finished me off, had your little execution. But no, you let me live. Why is that? Why wouldn’t you kill me?’

‘It’s too good for you.’

‘Is it? But the Flash deserves to die?’

‘He has it coming. He deserves it. Everything you’ve created deserves to die.’

‘Including you?’ Harrison laughed, dark and trilling. He leaned forward and looked him in the eye. Harrison was a tractor beam, pulling him in. He wished he could look anywhere else. He could feel the blood pound in his ears, he could hear Harrison’s heartbeat on the other side of the glass. He wanted to reach out and touch him, feel his hands on him once more.

‘I would be so lucky.’ he heard his own voice, flat and empty.

‘Hartley, I would never let you die.’ Harrison was velvet, molasses, kindness, everything Hartley wanted. ‘What sort of man would do that to a friend?’

‘I’m not your friend.’

‘But you were, and a very close one, too.’ Harrison looked away, finally, and Hartley was free of his eyes, no longer pulled under by them. ‘I will always remember you fondly, and I hope you will remember me, too. _Amicitiae nostrae memoriam spero sempiternam fore._ And I forgive you for what you’ve done.’

With this, Harrison Wells left. Hartley watched him go, turned the Latin in his head, tried to remember the translation. What was it? It was something cruel, something heartless. Something much like Harrison. _I hope that the memory of our friendship will be everlasting._ Hartley dropped his head against the wall and wondered if Cisco would come back, if he cared enough for Ronnie to do that. He wondered how long Harrison could force him to survive here. He wondered if he would ever get out. He wondered if he would ever be free of Harrison.

Icarus had crashed from the sky into the sea, dying for his hubris. Hartley Rathaway had not died for his pride, but had fallen for his belief that he could make a difference, that he could prove his father wrong, that Harrison Wells cared for him, that he could exact some justice. Hartley was paying for his arrogance. He languished in lock-up, cruelly kept alive. There would be no relief for him.

Icarus had suffered a better fate.


End file.
